


Demon Hunter

by Angelbird



Series: Demon Hunters [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 10, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Demon Dean, Gen, Sam-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5706733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelbird/pseuds/Angelbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It stands to reason that he finally finds Dean the moment he isn’t actively looking for him.</em>
</p><p>Sam has spent months looking for his brother. Unfortunately, the rest of the world doesn't stop for the Winchesters' mutual problems (it never has, why would it start now?), so when the students of a small town are brutally murdered, Sam decides to look into it. But his search for Dean has not left him unaffected.</p><p> </p><p>Alternate Season 10. Sam-centric.</p><p>(Destiel references if you squint. Hard.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Traces of Blood (Prologue)

 

Sam is a great hunter. He was raised to be so, and other than a few short breaks here and there, a hunter is all he’s ever been. Not an average person, and not just a man. Definitely never really a child.

Though, complaining about the absence of a childhood feels like a betrayal. For he knows he had some semblance of one. The prize of which was Dean’s. But he doesn’t think about his brother like that, if he can help it. If he can help it, he doesn’t think about his brother at all.

He can’t help it. It’s hard not to think about the person you are looking for. And it is plain suicidal not to think about the _thing_ you are hunting.

Right now, he has made a compromise with himself. Which is why he is extra annoyed to have been thinking of his brother anyway. Sam’s not hunting him right now. He’s been hunting Dean almost constantly, in one capacity or another, for well over two months. But this hunt, this creature that he is currently looking for; it is decidedly not a demon.

It is not just the lack of both sulphur and the distinct smell of demon in the latest victim’s house. It is not only the unbroken salt line in front of the window (the one by the door is broken, though whether that is done by the creature he’s hunting, or the locals who’d arrived at the scene first, or even the young man’s house mate Sam cannot know).

No, what gives it away definitely has something to do with the empty demon traps he knows are painted on the floor under the rug and on the underside of the now gruesomely red bed. They are perfect traps. Sam would know; he painted them himself less than 24 hours earlier, when he had realised the boy could be the next target.

The reason he is thinking of Dean is sitting in front of him, not crying, surprisingly. Her name is Trace and she found her brother dead in the bed this morning. Their house is small and run-down, on the edge of town. It is (was, Sam carefully mends) just her and her brother. He doesn’t know how long they had been on their own for – too long, he is sure, for the girl is only 22. Her brother was 20.

The house is in a state of disrepair, but the siblings have some kind of funds. They both attended the local university, nothing fancy, and they are (were) paying for their educations. Sam suspects they might both have had partial scholarships, though, but he doesn’t know for sure. He makes a note is his little black notebook to look into it. It could be important. He has no idea.

Something keeps him from asking Trace outright. The girl is still talking in front of him, relaying some story from her brother’s early teen years.

“That was the first time I saw how much ice cream he could eat.”

Sam is paying enough attention to her tale for that to comment to set neon flashes off in his head. A 15-year-old, who has never had ice cream before? Or a girl, whose parental protectiveness of the boy had been enough to remind him of Dean, mind, who had never seen her borther eat ice cream before?

“Excuse me, miss,” Sam knows he is rude, cutting her off, but he makes his voice soft and soothing. It used to be easier, to seem concerned and empathetic, but even if it is different from what his younger self was capable off, he has still got it. “There is something I don’t quite get.”

Trace is tilting her head at him. For a short, surreal second he wonders what her smile would look like. She is pretty like this, though. Hurt, but almost defiantly calm. Unbreakable. Sam shoves away the distraction.

“It seems strange that your brother’s 15th birthday would be the first time for him to eat ice cream.” Sam’s voice is still calm and reassuring, and he doesn’t think it warrants how the girl’s shoulders tense just a fraction, “In your presence.”

Completely unintentionally as it was, Sam knows he has hit on something. Trace’s entire body goes rigid (though it is still almost imperceptible, as though some instinct is doing it’s best to hide the reaction), and her eyes... The look in her eyes, she cannot seem to hide. There’s pure fear there.

Sam cannot in any way see how this relates to the supernatural creature that killed her brother last night.

The logic conclusion is that it doesn’t.

“Trace?” he prompts softly.

Information is an asset and knowledge is power. Whatever the story is here, Sam knows it might not help him. But there is a story, and he ought to seek it out. Besides, the look in the young woman’s eyes – deep brown, nowhere near green – hits a little too close to home. It has always been Sam’s belief that talking about things help. Secrets fester, if they are kept inside.

And it’s not just a story here; there is a secret. Sam has had (has) enough of them to recognise the signs (not least of the dark, painful ones), when he sees them.

“Please, Tracy.” The continued prodding finally gets a reaction out of the young woman, as she abruptly stands. Or maybe it was the unintended diminutive.

“I, uh, it’s...” Trace trails off, her mouth opening and closing a couple of times before she seems to give up entirely. She is not running out of the room, but Sam is quite sure at least part of her wants to.

Sam stays sitting. He knows he cuts an imposing figure when standing to full height, and the suit only adds to that. He has also been here long enough, even if it has only been four or five days (depending on whether you count the late evening of his arrival) that he has managed to gain a reputation. The local police sees him as a stern, no-nonsense, efficiency-above-all-else kind off guy. That impression has followed him onto campus, as he investigated the deaths of four, then five and now six, students.

He doesn’t want to intimidate this girl.

“It’s okay, Trace. I don’t mean to pry, I just want to find your brother’s killer. Anything, _anything_ you can tell me might be helpful.”

“D’you think,” she takes a deep breath, “Do you think it is the same guy as did the others?”

“Yes.”

Trace is hesitating, obviously debating with herself, “Let me rephrase that. Do you have any evidence that it is the same guy? Motive, common MO, traces left behind? Anything solid?”

Sam observes the girl. Her voice is steady and her gaze has turned hard. She seems calm, and any lingering shock has been repressed. As he watches, she sits back down in the chair across from his.

“It is my firm belief that it is the same perpetrator. That being said, there is of course always the possibility of a copy-cat.” Sam only adds the last bit as an afterthought.

He is perfectly sure that it is the same creature that is going around. But a hunter looks for different clues than an FBI agent, and he is quite sure that what he has found out would not hold as evidence in court.

There had been strange phenomena, hallucinations they thought, that two of the first four victim’s friends had told him about. When the fifth victim died, her boyfriend mentioned how she had accused her one professor of behaving weirdly. The boyfriend had seen the professor immediately afterwards. He didn’t seem any different from usual.

Trace’s brother had told him of weird phenomena himself. Sam had guessed demon, and had thought salt and a couple of other (herbal) precautions would be enough for one night. Sam hates being wrong.

“You haven’t asked me, if I could think of anyone who would want to hurt Oliver.” Trace’s eyes seem to go even harder.

“Taking the preceding deaths into consideration, the motive does not seem to be personal...” Sam stops, rewinds, and mentally hits himself, “ _Is_ there someone who would hurt your brother?”

Trace is silent for a long moment. “Not like this,” she finally concedes.

“Not like this as in not, ah, fatally,” Trace is taking the conversation very calmly, and Sam is impressed. And impossibly sad, “Or not in this way?”

“Is there someone who would want him dead? Yes. Would they kill him like this? Possibly. This bloody? Probably. Do I think it was them? No,” she sighs, then meets Sam eyes, “Why? ‘Cause they wouldn’t have left me alive.”

Sam is not usually left speechless, but this he doesn’t know how to respond to. And he has absolutely no idea how an FBI agent ought to respond to that statement, either.

After a moment he clears his throat, “Is there anything I can do?” If he cannot respond as his persona, he might as well respond as a person.

Trace is shaking her head before the question has even fully left his mouth, “No, agent, thank you.”

It’s Sam’s turn to shake his head, “That wasn’t what I meant.”

There’s that almost imperceptible tensing again, “You are offering me your help. As opposed to the Bureau’s.” Sam merely lets his eyes stay fixed on hers steadily. “That is not very professional, _agent_. And you don’t even know what this is about. You don’t know me.”

“Can we ever truly know another person?”

Sam’s not sure if he knows himself. He hopes he is not flirting. It might not be over the corpse of Trace’s dead brother, but there is a massive amount of blood soaked into the bedding in the room just down the hall, and two of the locals are standing outside the door leaving him in peace to, supposedly, do his job.

At least Trace doesn’t seem offended. There is not-quite amusement softening her gaze just slightly, although the smile is still sadly absent. Sam wants to slap himself. If he isn’t already flirting, a part of him definitely wants to be. It is wrong on so many levels.

He used to do this when he was younger, didn’t he? But usually a little later. When the damsel in distress had realised the exact (super)nature of said distress.

“Usually you start by asking questions, agent Tyler.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing here, though?”

“I’d say there’s quite some difference between getting to know someone and gathering intelligence.”

“I could help you, though,” Sam just about manages to suppress his wince at killing what was almost playful banter.

Trace shakes her head, serious again, “I appreciate the sentiment, Steve, I do, but I don’t want to drag you into this. It’s a big mess. It doesn’t matter, though. I grew up in it. I’m used to it,” and then, breaking Sam’s heart, “It was foolish of me to think I could just walk away.”

“ _Tracy_ —” Sam doesn’t even notice this time, but the young woman is already shaking her head to cut him off.

“No, we had a good run, me and Ol. But this, _something_ was always going to happen. I don’t feel safe here, but I know where to find protection. You and the guys earlier both asked, if I had someone I could stay with. I do.”

“Trace—”

“No. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Maybe this was a freak accident, and maybe Oliver’s death doesn’t have anything to do with anything. But maybe it does. In which case the message is clear, and I am going to react appropriately.”

“You are going to run.”

“I’m going home.”

This is, Sam reckons, quite possibly one of the most ominous conversations he has ever had, and he used to discuss the end of the world on a regular basis. He wants to do something for this girl who has just lost a brother she clearly loved, but is acting as though it is the natural order of things. He wants to say something, anything, but he has run out of time. Trace stands.

“I have nothing more to tell you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” She makes her way to the front door, and Sam trails after her, helplessly. “Good day, agent Tyler.”

She doesn’t shove him bodily out of the door, absolutely couldn’t with him having more than a foot on her, as well as quite some mass, but she doesn’t have to. He hesitates on the doorstep.

“Call me, if you think of anything else.” He hands her one of his fake cards. He cannot say anything else, for the local boys are watching from just a few feet in front of the door.

“Of course, agent. And I will take your advise, and go stay with my family. Can probably be ready to leave within the hour.” And there it is, the smile that he was so curious about. Even like this, as fake as the card in her hand, it is pretty.

She steps back to close the door, and Sam turns around and walks away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spot any surviving mistakes feel free to let me know. I will salt and burn them accordingly!


	2. Finders Keepers

  

Sam is a great hunter. And he works well on his own. He has had training in that before, but especially lately necessity has taught him some efficient lessons.

He doesn’t have many friends and the ones he would trust to watch his back he can count on one hand. One is dead. One is dying. And the last... Well, Death tends to _share meals_ with his brother (and even before that, death didn’t stop Dean, Sam supposes).

It stands to reason that he finally finds Dean the moment he isn’t actively looking for him.

Trace left as she said she would, and he hasn’t been able to track her down. He hasn’t spent very much time on trying, either – not because it is creepy and unwarranted (not only), but simply because he hasn’t got the time to spare.

Another student from the local university has died. That is seven people, _kids_ , in just over two weeks, and Sam still doesn’t know what is doing it.

He knows that the creature’s victims notice something, starting a couple of days before they’re killed. He has reports of strange lights and colours floating in the air, of seeing well-known people suddenly behaving strangely (apparently without anyone else around them noticing anything being off), what sounds like bouts of euphoria, and cedar. The last one baffles him, but he smelt it himself in both Oliver’s, and the last girl, Andrea’s rooms. As he went back, he confirmed strange smells in four of the last five cases as well. One guy even went so far as to suggest something foresty, piney. Sam is willing to bet it was cedar.

The students barely seem to have anything in common. They were majoring in different subjects, and only two of them had classes together. They all seem to have been intelligent, but some more than others. The only common denominator Sam has come even remotely close to finding is that they all seemed to like to butt heads over academic questions – especially with their professors.

He has been in the town for eight days and three more people has died while he has been there. As qualified a hunter as he is, right now, he doesn’t feel like he is doing a very good job. That is part of the reason why, when something that looks suspiciously demonic (cattle dropping dead, not a lot, but within a very precise radius) pops up, he jumps at it.

Even if it _is_ a demon, and even if it has nothing to do with his case, he would appreciate facing something he knows how to deal with.

  

* * *

  

He arrives at the dilapidated old farmhouse just as dusk is starting to settle over the fields. The place is deserted, completely abandoned, and there are no other livings nearby. But the house and the stables sit neatly in the middle of the circle drawn by dropping cattle.

The lane leads straight to the yard, and he abandons his car at the end of it. If there is a demon (or demons) here, they might already have heard him. But then, they might _not_ have, in which case he wants to pay them a surprise visit.

The grass and even the weeds are yellowed all the way out to where Sam is standing, and he has absolutely no doubt about whether he is in the right place any more. The sad state of the vegetation gives him pause, though; it seems to have been caused by something that should have shown up as a bigger ping on the radar than just a few dead cows.

There is of course the possibility that he is wrong (again) and that this _has_ something to do with his case, and is _not_ caused by demons at all.

With a sigh he grabs the empty spare duffel bag and loads it with a couple of different weapons. Better be prepared.

He makes it into the yard and then not a step further.

He has just stepped over the edge of what is a circle taking up most of the yard. It is drawn in blood – Sam absently thinks a good guess would be lamb’s blood – and it was invisible until he stepped inside the ring. He supposes that the sigils along what he registers is actually a double band might have something to do with that, but he doesn’t have the time to looks closer at them right now.

Anything inside the circle is visible too, now.

Maybe twenty feet in front of him, in the middle of the circle, a small fire is burning, giving off thick white smoke. He can smell thyme under the sulphur, and something else, which he knows that he should recognise, but cannot quite place. Sam is quite sure the concoction burning is designed to weaken (and, if his own reaction is anything to go by, thoroughly nauseate) any demon exposed to it.

In front of the fire are three demons. It is a wonder that they didn’t hear him coming, but they seem to be occupied amongst themselves. Two of them are standing. In front of them, closest to the fire, the third lies bundled up. A shrill, jubilant laugh from the female standing to the right gives a hint as to what might have covered whatever noises Sam’s arrival made.

The male next to her speaks, “Don’t worry about us, love,” there is sweetness in the answer to a question that the barrier had kept Sam from hearing, “Smoke’s vile, but it resonates with your true form. Means the more powerful you are, the worse it gets. So yeah, sweetheart, course we’re uncomfortable. But we get to see you so sick that you can’t even break those ropes. Fair deal.”

Another smell is filtering through the horrible smoke. The sweet tang of blood, demonic, finally makes its way to Sam’s nostrils.

For a moment the smell throws him. It is different than he was expecting. It is sweeter and harsher than it should have been. Sharper, and fuller, and wilder. Impossibly enticing and absolutely revolting, at once. He is drawn to the smell, this blood, like he has never been drawn to anything before, yet the thought of drinking that... The nausea induced by the incense seems like nothing in comparison.

The male delivers a kick to the bundle. Air whooshes out of it in a painful exhale and the female cheers again.

The bound demon squirms, to look at the male’s face, Sam guesses. It growls lowly and then hisses, “Bitch.”

Sam’s world ends a little bit. He knows the feeling of that by now, and though this isn’t about the entirety of planet Earth for once, it still draws out a complementary hiss from between his lips. This time the two standing demons notices. Sam prepares to do what he has always done when faced with the end of the world. He crouches into a fighting stance.

The force which slams him sideways is unexpected, and he hits the cobbles hard. The duffel which he had still been carrying upends and weapons are scattered in a wide arc from where he is lying. He can reach the handle of the bag, but he isn’t sure anything is actually left in it.

And he is dizzy. He hadn’t noticed before, but as his brain registers the info now it helpfully informs him that no, he didn’t hit his head on the ground, he was already getting plenty dizzy before. The nausea is still there as well.

The smoke is getting to Sam.

As the first demon, the male, descends on Sam he reaches for the duffel anyway. He is not even sure what he had in it that would be any good for fighting of a demon. He went in here expecting to be faced with demons, yeah, but anything in the bag was a precaution against something else. He just didn’t expect any demon to be able to get the upper hand on him like this. Sam realises he has become sloppy.

The demon attacking, reaching for the duffel and that realisation occur within the same second. By the time the demon is on him, Sam is already pulling his arm back out of the canvas, his prize, the only weapon left in the very bottom of the bag, tightly clutched between his fingers.

His body moves on instinct. The demon-killing knife, the knife obtained from Ruby all those years ago, finds it mark and pierces the demon’s throat. For a short moment, it’s vessel is lit by internal (infernal) light, then it drops. Sam rolls to avoid the corpse, the knife still lodged deep in its flesh. Lying on his back, dizzy, nauseous and mildly stupefied by his dumb luck in managing to pull just that weapon, Sam simply stares at the sky, trying to catch his breath.

The reprieve is short. The demon in the female vessel is throwing herself towards him with a screech. Sam barely has the time to raise his arms in defence.

But she never connects.

Through the smoke, a dark shape hurtles itself at her, and they land on her fallen comrade, rolling together. Then suddenly the new fighter seems to gain more movement, and the next moment, the body of the female is lighting up.

Sam gets to his knees. Watching him over the bodies of two dead demons, sitting similarly, is Dean, cut ropes on the ground in front of him, and Ruby’s knife clutched in his hand.

For a very long moment they just stare at each other. Dean sways slightly.

“Let’s move away from that, yeah?” Sam indicates the smoking fire with a throw of his head.

Dean nods, lifting the knife with deliberate slowness, before tossing it to him. Sam raises an eyebrow. Dean simply staggers to his feet.

Sam feels wobbly as well, but he thinks he is better at hiding it than Dean. But then again, if the effect of the smoke is bad for him, he doesn’t even want to imagine what it is like for Dean. That other demon had said that it was worse, the stronger the demon exposed to the concoction was. And he really doesn’t want to contemplate what level of demon Dean might be, not in any way, but the last guy who had had that Mark, who had wielded the Blade... That guy had been a _Knight_.

Speaking of the Blade, Sam doesn’t see it anywhere as he makes his way to the edge of the circle. But he really isn’t able to concentrate anyway. It is with unbounded relief that he steps over the line of blood and the air immediately clears, as though the fire had never been there.

It takes him less than a second to realise that it is as though nothing of what just happened was real. He can’t see Dean. Mentally cursing, he steps back over the line he now knows ( _hopes_ , if that was all just a hallucination, he doesn’t know what he’ll do) is there.

He is met with the tail-end of a string of expletives from his brother’s mouth. It cuts off as Dean sees him, though.

“You can’t cross the line.”

“Well, duh.” Dean rolls his eyes, but he is still swaying where he stands. He might try to play it cool, but Sam suspects he is mere minutes away from collapsing entirely.

“I thought it was just to hide you,” he looks down at the symbols lining the edge of the circle, “An obscuring barrier, or something.” The effects of the smoke are starting to make themselves known again, and without further ado Sam stoops, scratches through the double lines of the circle with the knife he is still holding and takes a step forward again.

The relief doesn’t come this time. It is as though he has set the smoke free by breaking the circle. Actually, Sam muses, that is probably exactly what he has done. But after a moment Dean joins him on the outside of the now broken barrier. He doesn’t look any better.

Sam nods toward a few sickly-looking (though not entirely dead) trees, a little down the lane. Dean follows him there wordlessly. The settle under the canopy of one, and as the now visible smoke begins to dissipate, the tension grows. It occurs to Sam that he probably ought to do something to ensure that Dean stays. Demon trap, the cuffs in his trunk, anything. But he just doesn’t have the energy to get up. Let alone accidentally start anything.

On the other hand, Dean still looks worse off than him. Sam wonders if, then actively decides to believe that his brother probably doesn’t have the strength for a disappearance act right that moment.

“What the hell was that, Sammy?” It is the first real words his brother has spoken to him in almost three months, and something catches in Sam’s throat.

“Dean,” he breathes softly.

The man next to him looks exactly like the Dean he knew. Jacket, plaid and eye colour. Even the blood which Sam smelt earlier, but only really notices know. He has seen his brother bleed so many times, way too many times, and he hates himself a little bit for finding it familiar (and by proxy almost comforting).

He isn’t bleeding now, though. Sam realises only belatedly that his brother’s injuries have healed up since he broke the barrier. There is still blood on his clothes, and some of it is definitely his, but at least nothing new is being added to it.

That probably means that though Dean still looks bone-weary, he is recovering his strength as well.

Actually, he looks more exasperated than weary right now. “Did you hit your head, playing rag doll back there?”

Sam scoffs. It isn’t like he deliberately let himself get thrown around. He had no way of knowing about whatever it was they were burning or how it would affect _him_. On second thought, it is probably better not to bring that up with Dean right now, though.

“Why?” Sam has a million questions, all about what his brother has been doing since his eyes obtained a new skill level, but somehow that one seems to be more pressing.

“Why what?”

Why are you teasing me like you used to, why are you just sitting here? “Why did you protect me?”

There’s a flash of something in Dean’s eyes which is not quite anger and not quite black, but it makes Sam quieten his breath nonetheless. “Why would you think I was protecting you? You sure I wasn’t just getting some payback?”

Sam lets out his breath, “No. You were protecting _me_.”

“If you are so sure, then why do you ask?”

“I didn’t ask _if_ you were protecting me, I was asking _why_.”

“Yes.”

Sam makes an impatient sound, momentarily forgetting that this is a potentially very powerful demon (who seems to be getting better by the minute) sitting next to him, refusing to be clear with him. Instead he thinks that his brother does this much too often, trying to deflect anything and everything that even has the potential of maybe straying just slightly into the neighbourhood of dealing with feelings.

“ _Why did you protect me_?”

Dean snaps. “Why _wouldn’t_ I?! When _haven’t_ I?!”

Sam is stunned into silence and his brother is glaring at him, eyes clear and green. The anger and frustration is palpable, but it is also human.

“But. You don’t care.” It is everything Sam can do to keep it from being a question. “You left.”

The comment earns Sam a harsh exhale and there is split-second of what could have been betrayal in his brother’s eyes, before they (finally, Sam thinks perversely) flash _black_. But it is gone, just as quickly, disguised by what might be a genuine exasperation or a special Dean-brand repression.

“I left,” he is speaking slowly and mockingly clearly, “because I care.”

There is so much, _too_ much, running through Sam’s mind. He decides to take a page out of Dean’s book – total repression – and not deal with it at all. Instead he wants to soldier on with the conversation. He doesn’t even know if he is trying to provoke his brother into showing of those baby blacks again. It feels like he doesn’t really know anything at all, right now.

“But you are here now,” In line with his inner turmoil, he doesn’t know if the words or even his voice are meant to be placating or provoking.

“Uhm, not exactly by choice, dude,” Dean is nodding towards the remnants of the barrier and the glowing embers of the untended fire. But Sam knows his brother well enough to know when he is being watched surreptitiously.

“You okay there, Sammy? Looks like you’d have been bad off, if I hadn’t been around to save your ass back there.”

Sam is a great hunter. He is good at hunting alone (though better with Dean, but that is irrelevant). _Demons_ are his fucking speciality. And then he messes up in front of Dean. He feels like he is eight years old again. He groans. Dean quirks a half smile.

“I wasn’t expecting demons, okay?” It’s only half a lie, anyway. He is hunting something else at the moment, something which could be anything from an obscure monster with a taste for intellectuals to a minor god who’s feeling a bit short on followers. “I ought to fetch the weapons.”

Sam still has the demon-killing knife, but the rest of his belongings are spread in the yard. It is fully dark now, and though the moon is full (his gun, which he does have on him as well, is currently loaded with silver bullets, _just in case_ ), navigating the uneven cobbles is going to be hell. He gets up anyway.

Sam has no idea what he is doing. He has been looking for Dean for weeks and weeks, and yet he is now making to walk away from him. Not far, but still, walking. Away. This also means he is turning his back flat on his brother, the guy who is also a very powerful and (Dean’s life considered) probably very angry demon.

The problem is, Sam has known from less than a week into his search that he was looking for a demon. A demon who had _left him behind_ of its own volition. But the creature he has found is considerably less of a Knight of Hell than he had expected. Less demon and notably more _Dean._

It throws him. He has done things searching for Dean that he knows, his brother wouldn’t approve of. But he never thought that that could be a problem. Even if he had tried to prepare himself for the possibility that he might see some of Dean in the demon, he had never even considered that there might be some of his _brother_ in there. Brother implies family. Family implies love.

Or loyalty, Sam admits to himself. For Dean, at least, that has always been an as strong, if not stronger (and that makes Sam sad) implication. But loyalty might explain this. Loyalty, even in a demon, Sam could maybe – just about – wrap his head around.

(Though Heaven knows he has been bitten by that particular bitch before.)

He has only gone a few steps the first time he stumbles. As he finally hits the cobbles of the yard, he’s on his fourth time, but he almost misses the way his toe hurts, as he hears the sound of a snigger next to him. He spins to look at Dean.

“Dean!” He doesn’t like how startled his voice sounds, “Did you just, uh.”

“Did I just what?”

“Teleport? Whatever it is that you do? To here?”

It is hard to make out Deans facial expression in the dark, but Sam knows his brother very well, and there seems to be a hint of worry there. “I’ve been walking with you all the way back, Sam. Didn’t you notice?” His voice confirms the concern, though it is well hidden.

Sam is talking to a demon, not his brother, but dammit if he doesn’t have a hard time convincing himself of that fact.

“No.”

The nausea and dizziness from before is entirely gone now, so Sam really doesn’t think he has any business in not being able to notice Dean’s proximity. Having a demon tailing him ought at the very least to make his hair stand on end. Or something. Dean has always been stealthy, and it stands to reason that supernatural senses can only help that skill, but still...

“You can actually see where you are going, can’t you?” Sam can hear the petulant betrayal in his own voice and cannot help but smiling at himself.

Dean laughs. “‘Course I can.”

“That’s totally unfair. Jerk.”

“You’re just jealous, bitch.”

The exchange is what finally makes the small hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand to attention. He begins to pick up the scattered weapons, and after a while Dean starts helping him fill the duffel bag. Without the demon’s night sight, Sam is sure he would have missed some of the weapons and he would have had to come back the next day to check, either way. But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels as though it is his brother there, next to him, keeping him company, helping him work, and making his life easier.

And Sam knows he has lost.

  

* * *

  

Dean follows him back to the car. He scoffs at the pick-up, but climbs into the passenger seat, wordlessly.

Sam drives them back to his motel. Somewhere along the way he develops a more and more irrepressible urge to scream. He doesn’t, though.

Dean is silent.

Once they arrive, Sam hesitates in the open door of his room. With a sigh, he swipes his foot through the line of salt on the inside of the threshold. Dead follows him in, still in silence.

“What’s going on,” Sam keeps his voice perfectly neutral, but he supposes some of his unease might be detectable in the way he is addressing the wall in front of him instead of turning.

“You tell me.”

Sam turns sharply to meet his brother’s steady gaze. The note of something off that he heard in Dean’s voice, is reflected in facial expression (or lack thereof) as well. He is on guard.

“I think you’ve had plenty of time to regain your bearings or get your head in the game or whatever, and yet you still haven’t slapped those enchanted cuffs I suspect you’re smart enough to take with you wherever you go on me, or stuck me in or trap. Or something.”

Dean’s right, of course. Sam is fully recovered. At least from the effects of that nasty smoke. Maybe less so from the mental impact of meeting his demon brother, though Sam appreciates the confidence Dean has in him. Yet the fact remains that Dean is raising a valid point. He should have him secured by now. And Sam has no excuse for not doing so, no reason he can share with his brother. He is not about to say that he knows (almost certainly) that he doesn’t need any kind of external help to make Dean stay.

“No, I haven’t. Why are you still here?”

Dean sighs. “Come on, Sammy!” It is almost a whine.

“Why, Dean?”

This time it is a growl, “Oh no, I asked first, bitch.”

It’s Sam’s turn to sigh. “Do I need to?” The look on Dean’s face prompts him to continue, “Do I need to restrain you? Do I need to watch you? Are you going to hurt me?”

“And what if I said no?”

“Then I’d be relieved, for it’s not like I don’t have better things to use my energy on.”

“Dammit, Sammy!” Sam ignores him, and makes his way over to the table and his abandoned research. “You’re just going to take my word for it?” Dean’s voice drops, and Sam almost doesn’t hear the rest of his comment, “I raised you smarter than that.”

Almost.

Dean is looking out the window, which allows Sam to study him. His shoulders are raised just a tiny bit, as though he is bracing for a blow he has no chance of seeing coming. His hands are curled in loose fists, although the right one keeps jerking and spasming. Dean doesn’t even seem to notice.

Sam wonders what happened to the Blade again. But he doesn’t ask.

Aside from the one, very brief flash of black in his eyes, Sam cannot tell the man standing in the middle of his motel room apart from his brother. There is nothing that screams demon about him. His behaviour is Dean’s, a Dean who is not currently hiding behind anger or jokes, and whose insecurities therefore shine through. That is maybe what is most off; Dean does not often let himself be seen vulnerable.

But even so, that doesn’t say demon. And it certainly does not scream Knight of Hell.

Either Sam’s (more or less uninvited) (definitely unintentional) guest is playing a long, complicated ruse that he has yet to see through or... Or Sam has absolutely no idea what this creature in his room is.

Which reminds him of the creature he is hunting, which he knows almost as little about. Except that it is _not_ a demon. (He knows that Dean _is_ , whatever else. He can sense that much.)

“So get this,” Dean visibly startles, “there has been seven killings in this town within the last 18 days.”

Sam meets Dean’s eyes, and it is clear that his older brother thinks he has lost it.

He huffs in annoyance. “I wasn’t looking for you, Dean. For the first time in months, I wasn’t, and I have absolutely no idea what to do with you now that you’re here. I don’t have _time_ to deal with you. I’ve been here for a week, and three of the victims have been killed while I was here. One of them I even knew was being targeted. And I still have no clue what’s going around picking off students from Ramshead University.”

Dean is still staring. It takes him a couple of seconds to close his mouth. “What do you expect me to say to that?”

“I have no idea,” Sam admits.

“And if I just left now, you’d be okay with that?”

Sam opts not to answer that directly. “You haven’t yet.”

“And if I were to stick around, what’d you expect then?”

“I don’t know. But Dean... You could help?” Sam wonders when his life became this particular brand of madness. He is using puppy eyes on a demon. Deliberately.

(Then he remembers that there might have been another demon, way back when, who might have been subjected to those same eyes. He is sure they had less effect on her, than on the supposed Knight in front of him.)

Dean seems to consider for a moment, before he sits down at the table. “Okay, what have you got? And, more importantly, can I kill it?”

The last part only gives Sam a second’s pause. It isn’t even an un-Dean-like thing to say. “So, listen to this...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter (demon) Dean!


	3. Righteous Anger

 

“Fuck.”

Sam hasn’t even opened his eyes, before the word leaves his mouth, but he hurries to rectify that. The early morning sunlight is filtering in through the worn curtains, illuminating the garish wallpaper next to his bed. In another half an hour it would have reached his face, but Sam highly doubts that it was the ligth that woke him.

What did is not immediately apparent, though. The motel room is empty.

Maybe it is the lack of another person (being?) in the room that wakes Sam. More likely, he thinks, he is probably just rested enough now that his head has caught up with what he had been doing the day before. That is certainly enough to shock anyone awake.

Not only had he brought the demon wearing Dean’s body (the demon who used to _be_ Dean) back with him. He had sat down and used a couple of hours to go over his case notes with the creature, actually answering questions and listening to suggestions. As though he was catching his _brother_ up on a case.

And then when he had finally been to exhausted to string together coherent sentences he had gone to bed. Opting to tell the demon goodnight, rather than securing it with the cuffs or in a trap.

Sam has lost his mind.

And now he is alone again. He had finally found Dean, and he let him go. Sam wants to scream. Yes, there are people dying here, but he could have gotten somebody else on the case. Hell, he could have let them die. Sam is embarrassed of that thought, but a tiny, defiant part of his brain argues that he is well overdue looking after himself (and his brother), rather than the entirety of the goddamn (ha!) world.

But it doesn’t matter. The demon is gone, and with it his chance of curing Dean. Sam buries his head in his hands. Then a second later he has his phone out, finger hovering over the call button. But what can he say? He has no way of defending his own stupidity, doesn’t even want to, and though he knows Castiel wouldn’t blame him, not out loud... He would only worry him unnecessarily. Even angels should be allowed to cling to the no news is good news-concept. (Sam knows that that does not apply here, he does. But he still doesn’t make the call.)

In an hour he is up, showered and dressed, and ready to go. No use crying over spilt milk or lost brothers. He will find the creature killing students in this town. He will save lives. That is what he does. Wallowing in self-pity isn’t just selfish; it’s plain stupid, and a waste of time to boot.

Sam is already opening the door, as he notices the salt line in front of the doorstep. Notable in the fact that it has been laid down again. His momentum has him swinging the door open, before his mind even catches up with his eyes.

By the time the salt line fully registers, his eyes have moved on to other, more interesting things. Namely his truck sitting in the near empty parking lot, one demon reclined on the hood.

“Dean?”

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty. I was starting to consider throwing pebbles at your window or something. It’s almost 11. Since when do you sleep in?”

“I, uh.” Sam might have been awake for an hour, but right now he feels as though his mind is not online yet. He had just about accepted the fact that Dean, no, the demon was gone. “You hung around.”

“Yep.”

Sam’s train of thoughts takes a detour, “Why are you hanging around out here?”

“Ah,” the demon looks almost sheepish, “I sort of locked myself out.”

“Can’t you just, you know, teleport inside, or something? You don’t really have to go through the door, do you?”

“I didn’t forget the key. Well, I did, but never mind that,” he averts his eyes, “Salt’s a bigger problem.”

“Oh.” Sam looks back over his shoulder at the unbroken salt line. “I didn’t put that there.”

“No. You went to sleep, without proofing the room. Really, Sammy?”

Sam ducks his head at the admonishment. Mainly because it confuses him to no end. If he had really been talking to Dean, just Dean, the didactic comment would have made sense. It is a rookie mistake, after all, not covering your bases before lowering your guards (i.e. going to sleep). But this is a demon, who should definitely not care about Sam’s safety. Also, Sam doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Dean generously omits mentioning how he had gone to sleep _with a demon already in the room_.

Finding Dean last night had unsettled Sam greatly, but he thought his less than smart way to deal with him had had more to do with his own exhaustion and the odd demon-repelling smoke. Now he is starting to wonder. He really has no idea how to deal with this demon who used to be his brother. It doesn’t exactly act like a demon, not in his book.

And then Sam has to backtrack. Because that is a lie. Dean the demon is almost acting as though he cares, yes. But it is not the first time Sam has seen demons act like that. Ruby had acted as though she cared, even if it was only to play him. (He is still open to the idea that that might be what is happening here, too. Only he cannot see why this ruse would still be going on. He had let his guard down completely. Whatever it is that Dean wants, it doesn’t seem to be his death. Unless of course he wants to torture him in some odd way, first. …No, Sam cannot see through the scheme, if there is one.)

But there are other demons who have acted like they care. Crowley has come close. Of course he has only ever cared for himself (well, blood-cure behaviour aside), but he has always seemed more sensible than most demons to Sam. And yes, he’s an evil SOB, Sam is fully aware of this, but still. There’s something.

And then there was Meg. And that is the one he cannot really argue against. Because her belief in unicorns is so far removed from anything Sam thinks, a demon should be capable of. The demon of his brother looking after him seems likely in comparison. Which pushes Sam to ask his next question, “Did you put down the salt line?”

“Well, you weren’t going to. And I wasn’t going to sit watch over you!”

“But _how_? Isn’t the whole idea that salt ought to repel demons? ... _You_?”

“Uhm, yeah, about that. Long as it’s in a bag, pouring it out in a line isn’t exactly a problem. I’d rather not touch it, it stings, but other than that...”

“Wow.”

“I did lean over the line as a finished it, though. Not a good idea. For a second there I thought it would actually exorcise me, you know, send my ass packing.”

“It didn’t?”

“Nah. Got one hell of a headache, though.” Dean’s climbed down from the hood of the car, and now he turns his eyes on the ground between his feet. “But I suppose that’s better than, you know, actual Hell. Haven’t been back, even now,” he gestures to himself, still not looking up, “definitely don’t want to.”

It’s not a new thing, demons not wanting to go to Hell. Demons have told Sam so before. But this is his brother who suffered forty years in Hell’s torture chambers (on and off the rack) because there was nothing he wouldn’t do to save Sam. They have been back and forth (and back and forth and back and forth) with the saving each other-thing, but Sam makes a silent vow, to save Dean one more time. He will take him back to the bunker. He will cure him.

If that means leaving the town of Ramshead to fend for itself, so be it.

“Okay. Okay.” Sam finally pulls himself together enough for closing the door and walking to the car. He moves past Dean to put the duffel bag in the back and Dean only raises his head to look at Sam once he has his back turned.

Sam knows that he shouldn’t turn his back on a demon. And no matter what oath he has just taken to get his brother back, he knows that the creature behind him is just that. A demon. He can sense it. But he is more alert now, rested, and prepared. The fact that he can tell that Dean is a demon is reassuring in its own right. Demons he can deal with. And he is not going to bring out the cuffs. Not yet.

“I need to check out. Wait here?” Asking is just a courtesy. Now that Sam has made up his mind, he is not about to let Dean leave.

“Check out? Why’re you moving motels?”

“I’m not... I was thinking, we could go home?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean actually hisses, “There is a monster here, something killing people. And you want to _go home_? You might have forgotten, but we don’t do home.”

It’s a demon, not Dean. It’s a demon. Not his brother who grew up knowing no other home than the Impala, and for whom home is a touchy subject. It’s a demon.

“Just once. Maybe—”

“No,” it’s a snarl, “We finish this. After, I don’t know. Whatever we need to deal with, we’ll deal. But first, we finish this.”

Dean is looking him square in the eyes, and though his brother’s gaze is perfectly human, Sam gets a sense that they are moments away from having his eyes turn black. And maybe from Sam being thrown clear across the parking lot.

Sam heaves a sigh. His brother (because that reaction belongs to his brother, even if it is just an echo ringing through the demon standing in his place) is right. “Yes. Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Sam’s confident he can keep Dean with him, for however long it takes to wrap this up. If things go south, he has the cuffs. Dean is a demon, but Sam is getting more and more convinced that he is only a demon. His brother has _not_ become a Knight. A Knight would have been a problem. But a demon he can handle, easy.

“You’re not, that’s the problem. When was the last time you ate, anyway? You didn’t get anything last night, did you?”

Dean’s a demon, who apparently hasn’t kicked the habit of trying to look after him. Okay.

“Nah. So, breakfast?”

“It’s closer to lunch. Somebody tried to get their beauty sleep. Sorry man, it didn’t work out.”

“Shut up, jerk.” Sam gets into the pick-up.

Dean follows and slams the door after him, “You know you love me, bitch.”

Sam does a double take. That is not something his brother would make fun with. Sam’s quite sure he is actually allergic to the concept of ‘love’ in any context or shape. But the demon next to him is just raising its eyebrow expectantly, as Sam turns the key in the ignition.

It’s a weird detail to remind him that this is not his brother. And if it makes him sad in more ways than one, well, he won’t look too closely at that.

 

* * *

 

Sam gets through most of his lunch before the demon across the table suddenly tenses, and his hunter reflexes have him scanning the immediate area for threats before Dean even turns his attention to him.

“Did you hear that?” Dean places his hands lightly on top of the table next to his empty plate and tilts his head to the side.

Sam cannot hear anything he wouldn’t expect in a near-empty diner just before the lunch rush, so he keeps quiet.

“It’s gone,” Dean pushes his plate softly from side to side, staring at it almost forlornly.

He told Sam that he doesn’t need to eat, but that he can still enjoy it. Perhaps the look on his face has nothing to do with the food he has ingested.

“What was it?”

“I dunno,” Dean hesitates, “I feel weird.”

This, more than Dean having heard something Sam couldn’t pick up on, efficiently kills the rest of Sam’s appetite. “What do you mean, you feel weird?” Sam can hear the caution in his voice.

“I dunno. It’s sort of a flux. I used to be so... so angry, you know. Well, I used to before, but this is different. But then it started fading a couple of days ago. You’d think I’d have been angry then, too, ‘cause that’s when those idiots you met yesterday got to me. But they took me here, set up that barrier thing, and I thought it was the smoke, you know? I mean, anger is a strength in a way, or at least it’s something you can use, but it just... drained away. Anyway, it’s coming back, slower, now, so I thought breaking the barrier did the trick. But just now, I heard... and then, this is the same feeling, just much stronger. Does this make any kind of sense at all?” Dean stops, and Sam muses that he might not need to breathe to keep his body going, but he should need air to speak.

It does make sense. And some of it worries Sam. Disregarding the whole part about the anger being leeched out of the demon in front of him, he thinks that the idea of it returning is a greater cause for alarm. He cannot help but wonder if Dean is as complacent as he is, because of the lack of said anger. If something external is keeping him calm, here, moving him could prove a problem. Sam knows what he said about being angry before is true, and he cannot imagine anything but that anger returning to Dean, the second it can. It is as big a part of him by now, as his loyalty and his bluster and that damn car.

“Wait, are you saying that whatever is draining, or subduing you, or what, was just here?”

“I don’t know!”

“Do you think it is something we should look into?”

“It doesn’t seem natural, does it?”

“No, but we already have a case here.”

“Oh, come on, Sam? Don’t you think it’s related?”

“Why would it be?”

“When is it ever not? Two monsters in the same place at the same time, no connection at all? It doesn’t happen.”

“You and your buddies showed up here yesterday.”

That seems to stump Dean, but only for a moment, “What’s to say that that didn’t have anything to do with what’s going on here?”

“I don’t follow.”

“No, it makes sense. They were going out of their way to keep me under control. Whatever’s here is blocking anger, which is a power source for demons. Some demons, at least.”

“Why were they dragging you around, anyway? How did they catch you. What did they want?”

Dean shakes his head at him, “Not the point, Sam. Focus.”

“But, Dean—”

“No,” there’s a hint of that anger sneaking into Dean’s voice now, but Sam has to admit that he is admirably calm. Yes, something’s definitely off.

“Okay, right. Something that calms people, and makes students hallucinate before killing them bloody. What’s that?”

“I have no fucking clue.”

“Okay, different question, did your friends?” Dean opens his mouth to comment, but Sam beats him to it, “And how did they know that whatever it is, is here? How did they find it?”

“That is a good question, Sammy,” Sam looks at him, and they have a moment of silent communication. “And were they able to find this thing _because_ they were demons?”

“If that’s the case, this is the first breakthrough I’ve had all week.” Sam stands and drops a couple of bills on the table. Dean joins him, “How would you feel about playing tracker dog?”

Something flashes in Dean’s eyes at the comment, but Sam’s almost sure it’s the opposite of darkness, “Let’s hunt.”

 

* * *

 

Several hours later they are walking through the local park. It is right next to campus, and as such seems promising. But they have been chasing shadows in the shape of Dean’s ( _the demon’s_ , Sam admonishes yet again) gut feeling for hours. Dean hasn’t heard the sound that he described as something between bells and running water again, either.

“It was a good theory man, but this ain’t gonna work.”

“It’s the best we’ve got, Dean.”

“It just isn’t enough. I was sure there was something here, but I genuinely can’t tell any more. I’d probably have to get out of town for a couple of hours, before I’m pissed enough to continue looking for this thing.”

“Dean,” Sam is already reaching for the demon, as the protest leaves his mouth.

“Hey man, I didn’t say that I would go,” Sam lowers his hand, but keeps his focus on him anyway, “I’m just saying that this is a bust.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Let’s head back, and,” Sam stops dead in his track, and Dean is several feet ahead of him, before he notices.

“Sam?”

“Do you smell that,” Sam isn’t even waiting for his brother’s confirmation. He knows this smell. Cedar. And there isn’t a single cedar tree in the park. He turns slowly on the spot, taking in his surroundings.

There’s a woman standing next to Dean as he comes to a full circle. Sam feels his eyes widen. Dean follows his gaze and to his credit he doesn’t jump or startle as he notices the figure next to him. But his eyes instantly flashes solidly black.

“There now, dear, it’s okay.” The woman rests a hand softly on Dean’s shoulder. Dean still doesn’t move. “We’ll soon have that fixed, honey. You’ll be much happier for it, I promise.” She lets her hand slide a little ways down his arm, to where Sam knows that Dean was once touched by another supernatural being.

Dean seems to realise this as well, and jerks away. The woman looks mildly surprised. Sam spares half a thought for the dusk that seems to be settling rather quickly, as well as the mist that has started rolling in. His instincts – not just those belonging to a hunter – nudges him softly. This is potentially very bad. In front of him, the demon parading as his brother is still glaring blackly at the woman.

“What the hell are you talking about? Who are you?” There’s a snarl underlying Dean’s speech, and Sam thinks the woman is doing a rather poor job of draining his anger right now. If it is her doing at all, of course.

“Oh, how rude of me. I am Kamrusepa. Cam,” she offers the shortened form softly, stepping forward to place her hand on Dean’s arm again. She goes for the other arm this time, and Dean lets her, “All that anger,” she draws in a deep breath and releases it heavily. Dean’s eyes go green. Sam is only getting more alarmed. “Anger is a terrible feeling. It doesn’t do anything good for the person feeling it, and it only hurts those around them. Don’t you agree?”

Dean is nodding along, and the woman presses closer. She looks to be in her late forties or early fifties, but for all Sam knows that estimate could be millennia off. The way she and Dean are standing, the way she is looking at him and he at her, makes them look like a couple. A cougar and her beau. Sam would laugh if the situation didn’t seem so precarious.

“I will rid the world of anger. And in the place of anger there will be gratitude and love. People will worship me, and the world shall be healed. This is a noble cause, is it not? There are so many demons walking the earth. I shall bring them peace.” She reaches up and makes Dean bow his head so she can place a gentle kiss on his forehead. Dean lets out a sigh, and Sam starts forward, ready to jerk his brother away before the woman can touch him again. But she steps back as he approaches, and nods at him, as though in polite greeting.

Then she is gone.

Sam stops in his tracks, just out of reach from Dean. The mist fades. Dean shakes his head.

He catches Sam’s eyes, “What the hell just happened?”

“You tell me?”

“The crow did some mojo on me, that’s for sure. I mean, I was feeling nice and calm, and then suddenly docile and practically lethargic. And... I don’t even know, man. That was weird.”

“I think we should head back to the motel.” This is what Sam would qualify as a close call, and it is audible in his voice. Dean seems decidedly not upset, but Sam suspects that it is a leftover from the magic he just witnessed. They walk back to the car.

By the time they reach the motel, Dean is restless.

“Seriously, what just happened,” he asks again, exiting the car. “I mean, I’m a demon. I didn’t think anything would be able to fuck with my head like that.”

Sam disrupts the salt line again to let Dean back into the room. “Why would that make a difference?”

“I dunno. Djinn poison doesn’t get to me. Sirens, either.”

He stops and turns to look at Dean. His brother is avoiding his gaze. Sam cannot stop the idea of Dean hunting, a demon going after other supernatural beings. It is absurd. But it is there. He has no idea what to do with that possibility, so he archives it for now, to be looked at later.

“I don’t know, of course, but I’m quite sure this creature is a bit worse than either of those,” Dean looks up at him then, “I’m guessing that ‘Cam’ is a minor goddess.”

Dean lets out a breath that’s almost a hiss, “That would just be our luck, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah. It would explain why she was able to mess with you, even if other things can’t, too.”

“If only I had had...” Deans mumble trails off.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Just... nothing.”

Sam doesn’t push, but he wonders. He wonders what became of the Blade. But that thought gets stored along with the idea of Dean hunting as he is now. Sam cannot deal with the implications of that right now.

“What did she say her name was again?”

“Cam?” Dean looks as though he is trying not to let his relief show that Sam let it go.

“Not that, the other one. Her full name. Kamrup...?”

“Kamrupsepa?”

Sam hits the internet to see if he can find anything. “Kam _ru_ sepa. Hittite goddess of healing. That doesn’t sound right...”

Dean goes to get them dinner while Sam looks up information on the Hittite gods and goddesses. When Dean returns with burgers he closes the laptop, and starts eating with an appreciative smile. Only then does it occur to him that this was yet another time that Dean could have left and he did nothing to prevent it.

Sam decides that the magic anger management currently going on has more or less given him his brother back. He doesn’t know how he feels about that, though. They have to stop this goddess. If he is right, she will need another five sacrifices. He sighs. It’s not like his life was ever easy. Why would it start being so now?

Sam flips open the laptop again, as he finishes his burger. Dean is still eating, but Sam figures he can listen. “Okay, so get this. Kamrusepa is a goddess of healing and magic. She isn’t very prominent, but she is mentioned in connection with another Hittite god. Telepinu is some sort of fertility or crops god or something, and apparently he got really pissed of at one point. Sound familiar? Anyway, he got pissed, and everybody suffered. Kamrusepa did a ritual with cedar as one of the ingredients, I have a list of the rest, but never mind right now, and upon the completion of the ritual she sacrificed twelve rams to the sun god and banished Telepinu’s anger to the underworld. Or locked it in a bronze jar. That part varies. Do you see where this is going?”

Dean’s done eating, but he’s still not speaking. He looks thoughtful for a long moment. “With what she was saying... She intends to rid the world of all anger? That’s... ambitious?”

“Uh, yeah, it actually kind of is.”

“What I don’t get are the butchered kids.” The flippancy with which Dean delivers that comment makes Sam flinch. Dean gives him an evaluating stare.

“The university. _Ramshead_ University. I’m guessing it could make sense to an ancient goddess?”

“Good point. Humans instead of rams?”

“More power?”

“Probably.”

“I mean, all anger in the world. You said it yourself, that is _ambitious_.” Sam shakes his head.

Dean worries his lower lip for a moment. “Do we stop her?”

“There was nothing about how... Wait, what?”

“Do we. Stop. Her?” Dean is looking at him perfectly seriously. Sam cannot help gawking.

“That’s not a question, Dean! She is going to sacrifice another five kids for this!”

“And yet, she might get rid of all the anger in the world.”

“Dean! We have no way of knowing if her hocus pocus is going to work. Even if we did... _Five kids_...” Sam trails of. He cannot believe that they are having this discussion. He cannot believe that Dean is looking at him as though _he_ is the one being unreasonable. “We don’t sacrifice people like that, Dean. We try to help.”

Dean is back to looking pensive. He seems to deliberate for a long moment. “I wouldn’t even have considered it, would I? Before?” It seems to be a genuine question, and that hurts Sam. He shakes his head in a mute answer. Dean nods and goes quiet again.

Sam is staring at the computer screen when his brother breaks the silence again, “There’s something else, Sammy. You guessed at the connection with demons yourself. Cam mentioned it, too. This spell, if it would render all the demons that are currently topside harmless... Maybe even kill some... All... Wouldn’t it be worth it?”

Sam doesn’t even know what part of that he wants to tackle first. Or perhaps it is just that what he wants and what he ought to doesn’t correspond. He can be selfish once in a while. “Dean, you’re a demon.”

Sam has acknowledge it before, both earlier the same day and the day before, but this seems different. All of a sudden there is a heavy tension in the air.

“Yes,” Dean says, letting his eyes flit black, “I am.”

It is the first time that Sam gets to see his brother up close with black eyes for any length of time. It is a thoroughly disturbing experience, and the fact that Dean is just sitting there calmly, letting him look his fill certainly does not help. On top of the visual input, there is also the sense that Sam gets in his gut, in his veins, screaming _demon_ at him. But there is a difference (and that is almost the most disconcerting part), for though he can actually _feel_ that this is a creature of Hell sitting in front of him, his body and mind also instinctually recognizes him as family. Sam knows of Hell. Sam has the scars to show for it.

Hell doesn’t burn hot enough to snap his family ties.

He exhales with a harsh sound and snaps his gaze away from Dean. The sooner he can get his brother cured, the better. This situation is messing with his head, even if Dean is not deliberately doing anything of the sort.

“There you see, Sammy,” Dean’s voice has gone soft and as Sam looks up he can tell his eyes are back to their normal colour, although Dean is not meeting his gaze now. “Demons need to go. That hasn’t changed.”

“Dean,” Sam doesn’t know where that sentence is going. It is clear that his brother is assuming that his head is at somewhere entirely different than where it actually is.

Dean’s been gone for a couple of months, and he has changed. Of course he has. But so has Sam. Sam doesn’t do well without his brother, and Dean should really know this by now. But Dean doesn’t know what Sam has been up to while he was away, and if it is up to Sam, he never will. He’ll cure Dean and they’ll go back to how they were. Not good, but... okay. Sometimes.

Sam stomps down on the frustration of the unfairness of it all.

Dean continues, “I told you I didn’t want to go to Hell, ‘cause my perception of that hasn’t changed at all. Same with demons. Hate them just as much. If I happen to be one now... Well, nothing new there either, I suppose.”

Sam’s, if possible, left more speechless by this. The demon across the table has just admitted to an unhealthy load of self-hatred. Sam has known for a long time that Dean dealt with that, but the chances of him ever speaking those words out loud are non-existent. Somehow, the demon version of his brother is more in touch with his feelings than the human equivalent.

That frustration rears its head again.

“That doesn’t change anything. We weren’t talking about demons and Hell. We’re talking about people, students, who are being slaughtered as sacrifices. We have to stop that,” Sam’s on a roll now, “Besides, say that the ritual works. Cam figured people would worship her. That’s how gods get power. What then? She seem like a god we want to deal with if she gets even more power?”

Dean seems as though he wants to protest, to pursue the former discussion for a moment. Then he shakes his head, lets out a breath and deflates ever so slightly. “No, not really.” He looks back up, “So, how do we kill her? You said there wasn’t anything on that in your sources?”

“No, nothing. I have some ideas, but...”

“Well, let’s hear it. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow to hit the library anyway, if that was what you were thinking.”

Sam smiles slightly. It was exactly what he had been thinking. “Well, most gods we’ve dealt with have to be staked. There’s nothing in connection with Cam, but the Telipinu-dude was symbolized by oak trees. So that’s an option, I guess. Or the cedar, now that I think about. Then there is the part about sending the anger to bronze containers from which nothing could escape, so I guess there might be something to that. And lastly, the whole anger-thing was started by a bee stinging Telipinu.”

Dean listens quietly until the part about the bee, which makes him visibly flinch. Sam’s phone is heavy in his pocket. It’s been almost two weeks since he checked in.

“So what you’re suggesting is that we trap Cam with a bronze net and stab her with a wooden stake of oak or cedar. Or, you know, a bee.” Dean is joking now, and Sam lets this one pass, too. That’s a can of worms he is not going to touch any time soon, if he can help it. He might not have much choice, though.

“Uhm, yeah. Possibly with me trying to see if I can dig up anything else tomorrow.”

There is another option, one which is probably even more salient, and they both know it. The First Blade should be plenty powerful to deal with a minor goddess. But Dean isn’t mentioning it, and Sam refuses to be the one to bring it up. In a couple of days, when they’ve stabbed said goddess with various pieces of wood, he might change his mind. But for now, he’ll allow himself to be stubborn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have exams Monday and Thursday, so next update will be Friday. Ta ta!


	4. Ashes to Ashes

 

Sam tries to suppress another growl. He’s quite sure the petite librarian is actually scared of him by now. It’s a pity; she is cute. But it has really not been Sam’s day so far. He has spent the last however many hours looking up Hittite mythology in a library that, while it might be connected to the town’s university, still isn’t very well stocked.

The morning had started out about as bad as they get. Shortly before nine he had gotten a call from the sheriff’s office. Another student found killed (bloody, of course) in her bed that morning.

And things had just escalated. He had had a full blown argument with a demon before ten. And Sam is honestly a little impressed that both him and Dean walked away from that.

It was a silly thing, too. Sam still doesn’t think the suggestion had been unfair, or offensive, or whatever. Fact is that Dean as a demon has a much greater mobility, and it would be stupid not to take advantage of that. All Sam had suggested was that he go back to the bunker and see if he couldn’t find some copper netting and maybe a couple of different wooden stakes. But apparently there had been all manner of problems with that plan.

First of all, there were trees right here, couldn’t they just carve some stakes from those? Sam has seen oak trees around, but no cedars, so he didn’t care much for that argument. Although he will give Dean this; there probably aren’t any cedar stakes in the bunker’s stores.

What he knows _is_ there, are copper nets, though. Sam has catalogued those himself. But that was Dean’s next point of contention. Who the fuck even have copper nets, dude? Well, they do.

Then there was the whole issue of Dean, being a demon, getting into the bunker. Which was really a non-issue. Which then became the issue.

Sam had calmly pointed out that demons indeed could get into the bunker. They had kept Crowley in the cellar for a reason after all. They had had the space to draw a trap there. Which sort of presupposes the need for a trap, which wouldn’t have been the case if the bunker had been demon-proof. Of course there are a dozen or so traps spread throughout the bunker, but they’re the Winchesters’ work and, as Sam sensibly added, Dean knows where those are, so he would have had no trouble avoiding them.

It was about then the non-issue became the issue. Somehow Dean seemed to think that Sam ought to have taken precautions (more precautions) against demons in general, but especially against him in particular. Sam saw it fit to argue the point that the problem over the last couple of months hadn’t been that Dean had been around – quite the opposite, actually.

Sam’s man enough to admit to himself that it was probably his fault that the argument escalated as much as it did. He has been taking precautions against demons, after all. He just haven’t gotten round to tell Dean about them.

(Somehow, he doesn’t think spilling would have helped the argument any, though.)

But it had ended as so many of their heated arguments have before. With Dean leaving. Sam doesn’t know where he is (maybe gone to fetch those bloody copper nets, since it makes sense!), and he doesn’t know if he is coming back. But he is decidedly not thinking about that. He has chosen to believe that Dean the demon sort of thinks like Dean his brother, and he is going to stick with that.

If he has to worry constantly, he won’t get any work done.

Sam feels like he has spent most of his life worrying constantly.

He isn’t getting any work done as it is, but it isn’t for lack of trying. He probably wouldn’t be making any headway even if he could focus a 110%. In all of the library, there simply isn’t any information on Hittite mythology beyond the mention of it in the old, dusty encyclopedia.

Sam had really hoped to find some myth, any myth, about a Hittite god being defeated (preferably killed, experience had taught him to go for permanent solutions long ago). Even if the myth hadn’t pertained to Kamrusepa in particular, they might at least have had something more to go on then. Any information on or mention of the goddess would have been good, too.

But he keeps coming up empty.

Sam admits defeat. He has four books in front of him, and he just wants out of there. Now. With a sigh, Sam settles for the middle route. He cannot be bothered to figure out the right place for the books, but he can take them to the librarian and tell her he is done with them. Maybe offer her a smile to ease her tension. Sam can just make out her form, perched behind her desk, and she definitely is still tense. He has gotten the very distinct feeling of her looking over at him at least every ten minutes for the last hour and a half.

Gathering the books, he walks over to her. She’s currently pretending not to be watching him, and therefore actually misses his approach until he is just a few steps in front of the counter. She almost manages not to jump. Sam suppresses a smirk.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where these go. I’m done with them now.” Rather than the smirk he goes for a soft smile. It is probably boyish, and he is probably too old to use it, but it seems to work wonders.

The librarian looks as though she has to work through her shock at his change in demeanour, but then she is smiling back at him, and Sam notices that she has some pretty damn nice lips. “Oh, thank you for bringing them over. Did you find what you were looking for? Mythology, huh?”

She’s chatty, but Sam decides he doesn’t mind. There’s a sparkle in her eyes behind the glasses, and he suddenly realises that he wouldn’t even have thought about it before hitting on her a couple of years ago. She’s definitely his type.

Sam thinks his younger self might have been on to something. That is not a new thought.

He opts for simply answering her question, “I was looking for some info on ancient Middle Eastern mythology. Hittite religion, specifically.”

“Get out of here!”

Sam raises an eye brow at her, as she shuffles the books he has just deposited in front of her.

“You’re... You are not just saying that? You are actually serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just... But you wouldn’t know. You couldn’t know, of course...” her speech quickly deteriorates into a mumble, and her cheeks are turning bright red. Sam has absolutely no idea what is going on.

“I have absolutely no idea what’s going on here.”

“I, I.. sorry. It’s just. I study the Middle Eastern Culture. _Ancient_ Middle Eastern Culture. I though maybe Cole or Dina had put you up to this, or something. But if they haven’t, I mean, you obviously couldn’t know,” she’s still blushing, “Could we just start this over, please? So, mythology?”

Sam chuckles at her. Maybe she wasn’t staring at him because she was intimidated. Okay. “Yeah, mythology. I was looking for something Middle Eastern. Anything you know anything about?”

“You’re in luck, I might just be able to help you with that! Anything in particular, you’re interested in?”

“Uhm, Hittite myth?”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” she pauses, “Wait, you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“Why’s that a problem? It isn’t the first time I’ve dug up strange myths and stuff. It’s, uh, sort of a hobby.” Sam’s not quite sure if the slightly flustered sound he makes is an act for the sake of the flirting. He’ll just pretend to himself that it is.

“The Hittite religion is like, notorious for having very little information passed down. They have ‘a thousand gods’,” the air quotes makes Sam’s stomach twist uncomfortably for a moment, “in their own words, but most of those only survive as names. There’s really very little writing left about the Hittites.”

“Oh, I see.”

“What in particular are you looking for? I know a couple of the myths, and since there’s only about a handful all in all, there’s a chance I might be able to tell you whether there’s anything worth your while there.”

Sam decides he needs a background story about now. He hopes the librarian doesn’t somehow find out that he is actually in town as (under the guise of being) a fed. Right now, he thinks research sounds more plausible. “Anything pertaining the death of gods. You know, the ‘Destruction of the Divine’.” This time Sam goes for the air quotes. He rather likes the name of the paper he is not writing, which he just came up with.

“The Destruction of the Divine?”

“Yeah, you know, Ragnarok, Amageddon, the apocalypse,” (shit, Sam might actually be able to write this thesis if he wanted,) “Different End-of-days-myths. Although I’d also go for smaller scale. One god dying or perishing, ‘cause of whatever.”

The librarian is giving him a thoughtful (or is it calculating?) look.

“Well, am I lucky?” Sam prompts, when she doesn’t say anything. Something flashes in the woman’s eyes. A slow smile slips onto her lips.

“I can’t think of anything on the top of my mind. But I do have a couple of books on the subject at home. I could have a look, if you wanted to stop by later? You might be _getting_ lucky.”

Sam matches her smile with a grin of his own. This is on. “Oh, that would be _very_ helpful.”

 

* * *

 

When Sam returns to his motel room after a (very) late lunch, Dean is still not back. If he had just teleported to the bunker to get the net and some wooden stakes, and if he had had no other agenda, he should have been back long ago. Of course he might have been, and then have left again when Sam wasn’t around. But the sad lack of useful gear makes that seem depressingly implausible.

Or Dean might have stuck with his stubborn decision (which had been made very clear during the argument) of teleporting to absolutely nowhere. Sam doesn’t get it. The ability to move like that, at will, must be great. He would love to be able to. Why Dean wouldn’t utilise an ability like that... It makes no sense.

He _has_ the ability. Sam knows this for a fact (or he might have thought that inability was the reason behind). But Dean disappeared from the bunker like that. Sam was right outside his door.

Sam knows he has to consider another possibility. Namely that Dean has gone back, and once removed from the influence of Cam’s ritual, has reverted into full demon mode again. If that is the case, Sam knows he won’t be coming back, and he will be back to square one with his quest for reclaiming his brother. He doesn’t like that thought. He tries not to think of it.

What takes its place in his mind is a related thought, though. And it is not pleasant, either. He wonders if it is time to make a call. In fact, he _knows_ that it is well overdue. But what will he say? Right now he doesn’t even know where he stands. Dean _could_ be coming back. Besides, Sam’s in the middle of an investigation. He’s busy. Yeah, he won’t call till he knows something for sure.

Sam proceeds to convince himself that he is busy by killing time surfing the internet aimlessly.

The hours pass. Dean doesn’t return.

 

* * *

 

After a light dinner (only a couple of hours have passed since he ate lunch anyway), Sam goes back out to the pick-up. Seated in the drivers seat, he makes another call.

“Hi Ashley, it’s Sam,” he smiles into the phone as the librarian’s chipper voice greats him.

They had agreed that he could stop by ‘some time after dinner’ and now, a little to nine, Sam guesses it’s about time. He gets Ashley’s address from her, promises to see her soon and hangs up. Then he takes a moment to steady himself.

He doesn’t know where Dean is, or if he is coming back. He has absolutely no idea about how to stop the rampant goddess, and he doesn’t hold much hope that Ashley has found anything. But he does hope to spend a pleasant evening, with nice (and it seems enthusiastic) company, and he has to push his worries aside so he can focus on that.

Tonight he is going to enjoy himself and live a little.

Ashley greets him in the door and gives him a hug, which they probably don’t know each other well enough for. But it settles Sam. He is sure his expectations of the outcome of this evening are right. He’ll get no new leads on the case, but Ashley will manage another form for stress relief for him.

“It’s nice place you have here, Ashley. Quaint. I like it.” It’s not just politeness, Sam actually does like the little one-bedroom flat with just a little too many books (and a lot to many candles, but he can deal with that).

“Thanks. Call me Ash? All my friends do.”

“But I like Ashley,” Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “Do you mind?”

“Uhm, no, I guess not.” Sam knows his smile is suggestive and he is pleased with the blush it draws into her cheeks, although part of his brain is preoccupied.

If he is perfectly honest, he doesn’t care much for her name either way. But he can’t call her Ash.

For a guy who hunts ghosts professionally, he sure has his far share haunting him.

“So, I did a little digging, but I’m not sure I’ve got anything useful for you.”

Sam gives her his entire attention again., “Not sure meaning?”

“Well, there is this Tarhunt, a storm god. He is not really interesting in himself, but he has some things in common with Indra and Thor. Most importantly the epic battle with a world snake – Illuyanka to the Hittites. Still, not interesting in itself. But! Like with Ragnarök, Illuyanka takes down the sun. Only, in Hittite mythology, that means kills, ‘cause the sun is the goddess Hattic, Tarhunt’s wife. Possibly.” She draws in a breath through her excited rambling, “So, that’s what I got. Goddess eaten by snake.”

Sam’s smile, as he looks down to her flushed face, is real. Goddess eaten by snake. Specifically, not the goddess he is dealing with. He knew about Tarhunt and Hattic – that is probably one of the most known (not that that is saying much) Hittite myths. The serpent, too. The only part he didn’t know was the goddess being eaten part. But he highly doubts that is going to help him.

“Is that going to be useful at all?”

Smile or no, Sam has been quiet for too long. “I don’t know. Could be. It’s a nice detail, anyway. Thank you. Really.”

Ashley smiles again, reassured, “Of course. I hope you can use it. So, anyway, I know it’s not much. I have the book here, if you want to see for yourself? I can get you a drink if you want?” She dumps the book on the coffee table as she speaks, and nudges him onto the couch. Then she disappears into her kitchen, without waiting for an answer.

Sam has not touched the book when she returns. She hesitates just slightly. “I figure if that’s what there is to that myth, it’s no rush.”

The young woman smiles as she sets the beer in front of him, before settling in the couch next to him, one leg drawn up and turned so she can face him. She’s clutching her own bottle, and as Sam looks over, she takes a slow sip, folding her lips carefully around the neck of the bottle. Sam grins.

He turns halfway to her; he couldn’t fold his legs like that, if he wanted, and they probably wouldn’t fit on the couch anyway. “So, why the Middle East?”

“Excuse me?” It seems as though her thoughts were somewhere else. Maybe a little further ahead in the evening. Sam can appreciate that.

“Why did you chose to study the Middle East?”

Ashley smiles softly, “Oh, I dunno, sort of just always interested me?”

Either she is inept at making conversation, or she is planning on skipping the small talk. The way she traces the rim of her beer bottle makes Sam guess that the latter might be the case.

“Yeah? And what else interests you?” He raises a brow suggestively, and she leans forward.

“Perhaps I could show you?”

Conversation is overrated anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters to go. (and, you know, the sequel ;) ) Anybody want to guess at Sam's secret yet?
> 
> Next chapter on Sunday, the 24th.


	5. High Stakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I added the "Canon-Typical Violence" tag - still nothing very graphic, though.

 

Sam gets back to the motel room a little less than twelve hours later. He is carrying a paper back with enough breakfast to feed a smaller army (strenuous exercise and all that), and a book he highly doubts will aid his investigation, but which will provide an excellent excuse to go back to Ashley’s cosy little apartment.

He opens the door to find his brother sprawled across the bed he made the morning before, watching Dr. Sexy MD on the motel’s battered television. For some reason that is the first thing that registers. There is something entirely un-demonic over early morning soap operas.

“Nice of you to make it back,” Sam thinks that ought to be his comment, “Please tell me that that is breakfast. And greasy!” Dean pushes himself of off the bed and snags the paper back out of his hand.

“Help yourself,” Sam says with a mock glare, throwing Ashley’s book onto the bed before sitting down at the table.

“Oh, there’s like food enough here for a whole garrison!”

Sam wants to make a jab about how angels don’t eat, but he knows his brother well enough to see the tendons in his neck tightening and realise that the angel-reference was entirely unintentional. Sam doesn’t want to go there anyway, but for the first time he wonders, really wonders, how Dean feels about the rather large celestial part of his life now.

“Need to replenish your energy, Sammy? I’m proud of you!” It’s nothing new for Dean to cover up awkwardness with crude jokes, and the leer on his face makes Sam shake his head and gesture for the bag.

“Yes, now hand that over!”

Together they demolish the food that Sam had bought (no breakfast salads here, as Dean points out, part gleeful, part proud). They chat and banter, and Sam can’t remember the last time he shared a meal that nice with Dean. Not because he turned demon and disappeared for a couple of months. More because their lives has been one big tangled ball of stress for, oh, the past decade or so.

It’s not even that there aren’t good parts in between. There have been. They just seem to grow rarer and rarer as the brothers grow older and more jaded. Right now, sitting at the table Saturday morning with his brother intermittently ridiculing him and congratulating him on getting laid, Sam feels more at ease than he has in a long time.

What’s more is that he knows it’s not only to do with him. It is the combination of his own good mood with Dean’s relaxed posture. Dean is calmer and more open than he has seen him in years, and it blows Sam’s mind just a little bit.

Also, he is aware that he is thoroughly enjoying the company of a demon right now. He hasn’t done that in years (he thinks that the fact that he has at all should be disturbing). He is also conscious of the fact that he has more or less just thought that demon Dean is more like his brother Dean than the human Dean has been for years.

“So,” Dean says, standing to throw their trash into the bin, “I looked through some of the material you managed to dig up. What about that,” he gestures to the book on the bed, “that any good?”

“I honestly don’t think so. Apparently, Hittite mythology isn't very well preserved. The library was a bust.”

The look in Dean’s eyes very clearly asks where the book is from, if not the library. Sam ignores it. After a moment, so does Dean. “Anyway, I agree with your ideas on oak, cedar and copper, for lack of better options. And you’re right, we always end up stabbing pagan gods. Stakes seem like the way to go.”

Sam nods at him, “So, which do you figure we try first, oak or cedar? I mean, we should probably keep both handy, for when we run into Kamrusepa. I hope we won’t before we know for sure how to kill her, but let’s face it, we’re not that lucky. Also, we’re on a deadline. She’s been taking offerings every couple of days,” Sam pauses, reconsiders, then backtracks. He really doesn’t want to start another argument, but, “Do we even have any stakes?”

Dean smiles, “Way ahead of you, Samantha.” His voice is tinged with levity, and Sam thinks he is trying hard to pretend the argument didn’t happen. That’s fine by Sam. “I figured you’d want to decide on which wood to go for, and I figured not deciding would be a better option.”

“That doesn’t make any sense—”

“Which is why I made this.”

Dean presents him with a stake with an exaggerated flourish. The wood is light and not nearly red enough, but the smell is unmistakably cedar. The tip is capped by a (wickedly sharp) copper point. The length of the stake is smooth and soft against Sam’s fingers, as though...

“It’s oak, but treated with cedar oil. You were right, no cedar trees around here, and I didn’t exactly want to buy a garden chair to pick apart, or something. Tip’s copper welded into the wood.”

“Copper’s soft, though.” Sam’s not criticising – he’s actually pretty impressed, but he sees Dean’s face fall infinitesimally.

“Wooden part’s pointed too, to make up for that. Even if the copper gives, you’ll still have a point to work with, and I took the copper through the stake, so some of it should go in, no matter what.” Dean’s voice is matter-of-fact, like this is no big deal. Sam just stares at the stake.

“That’s...” Sam takes half a second to wonder if Dean’s actually bracing, and another half to be stunned at just how furious that idea makes him, “That is actually pretty fucking amazing.” He looks up at Dean, and this time he is met with a little smile. “It’s fucking brilliant, Dean!”

“Heh, don’t get your panties in a twist. We don’t know if it’s going to work. But you should take it with you, just in case.”

Sam sticks the stake inside his jacket. “You have one, too?”

“Nah, only made the one.”

“Dean...” Sam’s hand’s already on its way back inside his clothing.

“No, seriously dude, hang onto it. Cam’s not gonna do anything to me, even if I run into her first, remember? She wants to exorcise my anger, not hurt me. Well, possibly hurt me through that, but we don’t actually know, so...”

Sam hears what Dean isn’t saying, too. If the goddess gets to him it's just another demon biting the dust, and Dean’s fine with that. Sam’s not so sure the same goes for him.

“Why didn’t you make another?” It’s the least confrontational comment he can come up with.

“Dude, took me the better part of the day to get that one done. And then it was late, and yeah. I figured, why bother?” Dean suddenly grins at him, “Not that you were here to keep me company, though!”

Sam cannot help but return the smile. He doesn’t want to start another day with another argument, so he just makes his mind up to not split up from Dean while hunting this thing.

“There’s something else, too,” Dean returns to the table, sobering up.

“Some of the myths you came up with talked about a human invoking Cam, and sort of setting the ritual in motion. Sometimes offering prayers, or doing the actual offerings. We should probably keep a lookout for that.”

“Oh. Yeah, you’re right. Huh.”

“Perhaps we ought to do some poking around with that in mind. See if there’s anybody who knows anything about anybody who’re into Middle Eastern stuff?”

“Well, I can tell you for sure that there are. The college offers a major in Ancient Middle Eastern Cultures.”

“Well, shit. That sounds like a good place to start, doesn’t it?” Sam hums in confirmation, and Dean continues, “Do we have any idea how we can get to talk to any of these people? Feds?”

“Actually, I have already spoken to one of them,” Sam’s not blushing, he’s not, “She might be able to give us an in.”

“Well, well, well, Sammy, maybe you should get on to that, then?” Dean’s expression suggests that he _is_ blushing. Sam curses inwardly; he’s about ten years (twenty?) too old for that.

“What will you do in the meantime?”

“Maybe have a look at that book of yours? Poke a bit around town?”

“Dean, what if you run into Kamrusepa? Perhaps you should take the stake.”

“Dude, you’re the one who’s going looking for her human High Priest or whatever. I think you’ll run into Cam before me.”

Sam isn’t happy about it, but he’s also cannot argue. He feels kind of pathetic about how quickly he has to give up on the not leaving Dean out of his sight plan. But he also really doesn’t want to introduce Ashley. Or vice versa.

Only secondly does Sam consider if he should feel bad about more or less giving a demon permission to run around. He should. To some degree he does. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to let him.

“Right. But call me if anything comes up, okay? Anything at all.”

“Yeah, same goes for you. You’re not going after this bitch, or any human handmaids or whatever, on your own. Got it?”

“Got it. I... will see you later?”

“Yeah yeah, Sammy, go call on your girlfriend,” Dean waves him towards the door. Sam only hesitates a little bit. Dean might not have noticed.

Once again sitting in the driver’s seat, only a few hours after he got back to the motel, Sam stares at his phone. He has no idea what is wrong with him. It’s like he has been bumped back a decade and then some, and he is suddenly shy about calling the girl. It is absolutely ridiculous.

But if he isn’t man enough to do it (too soon, what’s she going to think!?), he _is_ a hunter.

He can call her for the case. He can string her along for that. He was already stringing her along anyway, Sam guesses, for it isn’t like he had intended to stay around after the case anyway. He thinks. So, the problem is really just that it seems to be socially unacceptable to call so soon after a date (or a booty call? Does that actually make it better?). He can deal with that. He can work with that.

She picks up quite quickly, “Hi Ashley, it’s Sam.”

“Hi Sam.” Sam cannot place the tone of her voice. Is she pleased that he is calling? Does she think that he is weird and stalkerish for contacting her this soon? Did she actually just answer the phone as a normal, sane person – rendering either of the above reactions ridiculous interpretations by his over-active imagination?

“Thank you for last night. I had... _fun_.” Sam hopes his smile is audible.

Ashley’s grin is, “Ditto.” Sam flounders for something to say before Ashley saves him, “Perhaps you can hand the book I lent you back one of these evenings?”

“Oh, it’s a date.” She actually giggles. It sounds tinny through the phone and Sam winces slightly, “Sadly this call is all work. I would really like to do some more digging in the Middle Eastern mythology in general. Do you have any suggestion about who I could talk to? Maybe some of your classmates?”

There is a silent huff at the other end of the line, “You could ask me, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam quickly backtracks, “I am asking you. I would just like to talk to some different people, get a couple of perspectives, you know?”

“I don’t really know who to introduce you to, though,” her hesitation is palpable.

“Please, Ashley?”

“I don’t know, Sam...”

“There must be someone?”

“Most of the guys are more interested in the culture, you know? Dina thinks I’m nuts for looking into ‘that occult crap’, as she so nicely puts it.”

Sam can’t help his snort, “The occult isn’t crap, in my experience.”

“Oh, you’re sweet!”

Sam pauses with a slight smile. He wasn’t exactly looking to reassure her. No, Sam just so happens to know that the supernatural might stroll out of the shadows any day to bite you in the ass. But he is not going to tell Ashley that. Either way, he doesn’t mind that she takes it as a compliment, in the least.

“I suppose,” Ashley continues and Sam holds the phone a little tighter, “I could take you by the faculty tonight. We have some books for common use, which we aren’t allowed to take home with us. Could be something in one of those. I could smuggle you in?” There’s a smile in her voice.

“You’d do that?” Sam likes this girl more and more.

“Yeah, I mean, some of my professors might have something, too, but you’d have to make an appointment for that. I think this is a better option, don’t you?”

Sam definitely does. Once he has gotten the layout of the place it won’t be a problem for him to break into the professors’ offices at all. In fact, he can probably get Ashley to tell him exactly which professors to go for. Without mentioning the breaking and entering part, of course.

Sam promises to pick her up at ten (Ashley thinks his black car is perfect for the mission – Sam laughs at her choice of words) and they say their goodbyes. Then he returns to relay the plan to Dean (with mentioning of the breaking and entering).

“I could come with you...”

“Dean, I think Ashley’s gonna wonder if there’s suddenly another dude with me.”

“I didn’t intend to sit myself in the shotgun seat, bitch,” Dean makes a face it him, “I just meant that if I could sneak in behind you, I could get on the breaking into offices part, while you go through the books your girlfriend digs up.” Sam makes to protest that statement, but Dean waves him off, “If you can keep her occupied, there is no reason why I shouldn’t be able to go through the professors’ books tonight. Otherwise we will have to wait another night, and last I checked we were sort of on a deadline.”

Sam lets out a long exhale. Dean has a point. “But how will you know which offices to go for?”

“You meant to get this Ashley chick to tell you, right? I’ll listen in.”

“Chances are there won’t be anywhere for you to hide to eavesdrop on that conversation, even if I manage to time it to when we’ve just gone inside.”

“I’m stealthy.”

“Dean, I _know_ , you’re a damn good hunter and it goes with the territory, but—”

“No, Sam, you don’t get it,” Dean looks away and worries his lower lip between his teeth without continuing. Sam freezes at the uncharacteristic display. If he didn’t know better, he would say that Dean is nervous. “You’re calculating with a human’s ability to hide,” Dean finally settles on.

It takes Sam a moment to get it, and he has to repress a shiver. Not at the fact that his brother is a demon and could probably more or less hide in plain sight as soon as there is even a trace of shadow. He can deal with that. It is going to help them on this hunt. But Sam realises that he might momentarily have forgotten that Dean _is_ a demon.

And then the real shock comes. Because no, thinking actively about it, he hadn’t forgotten. He can _sense_ it, for Heaven’s sakes. But he had chosen to disregard it. And Sam knows that that’s all sorts of fucked up.

Dean is still waiting for him to respond, and somehow Sam thinks that it is very odd that the demon in front of him seems to shrink as he continues to fail saying anything. If he didn’t know better, Sam would say that Dean honestly cares that Sam might be put off by ( _hate_ ) the fact that he is now a demon.

“Okay.” It’s not much, but it’s the best Sam can do.

“Okay?” it’s hesitant. It’s obviously not enough for Dean.

“Okay, we’ll do it your way. You’ll come, I’ll get Ashley to list the relevant professors. We’ll split the work between us and be done tonight.”

“Really Sam, that’s it?”

“I can’t change what you are, Dean.” Not here, not now. Not yet.

Dean lets out a harsh breath, “And so you decide on letting me run loose,” and then, much lower, “I thought I raised you better than that.”

Sam’s not an idiot. He knows that letting a demon run around with no restraint, no orders, no protection, no nothing, is insane. He knows that Dean wouldn’t do the same if their roles were reversed. Even if everything was reversed, he suspects. But Sam is also not defenceless, and Dean is not nearly as uncontrollable as he himself seems to think.

Sam decides to pretend he didn’t hear the latter part of Dean’s comment, “You promised to help on the case—”

“And you’re trusting me? I’m a—”

“I’m not stupid, Dean!” Sam takes a calming breath. He doesn’t want to get into another fight, and they are well on their way. “I’m not stupid, but you are right. The clock is ticking. It is the better option.” Also, Dean has given him no reason not to trust him yet, which is almost more disturbing than anything else.

 

* * *

 

“It’s through here.” Ashley holds a door to another hallway open for him.

As the door shuts behind them, Sam looks around. The corridor is lined by doors with names on them. A tingle runs down Sam’s neck.

“If this doesn’t work out, and I have to set up a meeting with one of your professors, who would I talk to?”

Ashley looks at him, then lets her eyes trail the doors as they walk down the hallway. She points at one, “Professor Summers does the introductory course on AMEC. He knows a little about everything.” Sam catches her eyes, one brow slightly arched. Ashley giggles, a slightly whiny sound in real life, too (Sam thinks that nobody is perfect), “Ancient Middle Eastern Culture: AMEC. It’s long.”

“Ah, touché.”

She smiles and continues, this time without pointing. “Then there is Professor Liebstein, who does the AMEC Religion course. He tends to focus more on the larger religions, though, and sometimes comes closer to contemporary issues than ancient debates. And then there’s Professor Lock of course, who isn’t with AMEC at all, but who has a mythology course every year, and apparently knows everything about everything.”

Sam wonders who Dean will go for first. He knows where he would like to start. But as long as he and Ashley are in the hallway, Dean can’t go for any of the doors, he figures. “Are they all here?” Sam gestures back to the doors as they finally reach the staircase at the other end of the corridor.

“Here or on the floor above. Well, the ones I mentioned are all here. But come on.”

They make their way another two floors up, and into what most of all seems to be an open miniature library. It’s almost entirely dark, but it smells like old books and wood, and Sam likes it. The one wall is covered in pigeon holes, colourful pieces of paper lighting up in the dark here and there. Sam can just make out the bookcases on two walls, and the extra shelves stuck to the one with the window. In the middle of the room are two lumpy couches, with what Sam thinks are pillows stacked in a great pile, furthest from the window.

Ashley hits a light switch, and the pile is _not_ cushions.

“Oh, hello again my boy.”

Sam doesn’t take a step back as Kamrusepa stands, but it’s a close call. The shock of finding himself face to face with the goddess and the rush in his brain as he finally (too late) connects the dots, have him stunned for a second too long.

The goddess steps up to him, and as her hand lands lightly on his cheek, he feels himself deflate.

She is draining away his anger, a little voice in his head tells him, but it feels like more than that. With the anger goes all his strength and his will to fight. Sam feels empty and impossibly tired. Kamrusepa pushes him to the closer couch, hand never leaving his face.

Somewhere behind him, the door clicks shut. Sam knows he should be furious at the double cross, but he doesn’t have the capacity for that with the goddess’ hand on his face, “You’re her human liaison. You summoned her. Of course.”

Sam cannot see Ashley from his position now fully laid back on the couch, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care much about anything, to be honest. He has been fighting all his life, and it will never stop. His brother is a demon, and couldn’t fight this goddess even if he was right there to back Sam up. The stake Dean has made is nothing but a hard, uncomfortable press against his side.

Perhaps he should go for that stake, the tiny part of his brain that is still struggling tells him. Come on, you can do it.

Kamrusepa lets out a delighted little chuckle, “Hunters,” she strokes his cheek lovingly, “I don’t think there are any humans with so much anger and hatred in their hearts, and yet you always manage to put up a fight.”

Sam’s eyes dart to the goddess’, “What’s that mean, Kamrusepa?” His voice is still under his control, and Sam’s happy for that. Small blessings. Not that it matters either way, of course.

“Just Cam, remember?” she kisses his forehead, and Sam simultaneously feels like he has been hit with a sledgehammer and wrapped in cotton. Even as Cam stands, he finds that he cannot move. “But I will answer your question. You’re not the first hunter I’ve met. Far from it. Over the centuries, there’ve been quite a few. Some have even worked with me, once they learned their worth and mine. Some have left in peace. There have been others, though, those who would not let go of their anger and followed it when I banished it to the underworld,” she pauses her pacing and looks at him with a smile, “But now, this spell, there’s quite an effect. There was one, the first girl, my number three, I think. She was obviously aware of something, although she lived quietly, unobtrusively here. If she wasn’t a hunter, she might have been the child of one. That’s what I think, anyway. She went at me with a silver stake,” Cam chuckles, “that was a dead giveaway. Who has silver stakes, anyway?” Cam smiles at Ashley, who Sam now notices is back in his line of sight. The girl bows her head in respect.

Sam wants to struggle, but the mind-numbing tiredness makes it impossible. Yet, and Sam has to admit that it is a bizarre feeling, it doesn’t dull the growing alarm in his chest, nor the panic starting to curl through his limbs. He is not sure he wants the continuation to the story, though he knows the conclusion. The third victim was dead, too. That was when he had finally decided to take up the case.

He can just about work up some guilt at the almost-there relief that he knows for a fact that this girl, this hunter, wasn’t somebody he knew.

“But she was the same as you. One touch was all it took and there was nothing left. She was empty. Oh, she still tried to fight, because it is there, in the human mind, and she had maybe half an idea of _how_ to struggle, but the _will_ to... That goes straight out the window with the anger. It’s all you have; hunters. Anger and hatred.”

All Sam’s feelings are dulled, and instead of making him think clearer, it is making his brain move slowly and sluggishly. But he realises that it is not just tiredness, not really, which creates the numbness. It is apathy, thick and sweet and cloying, and – and if Sam’s mind was working, he knows this would be important – foreign. There’s something else, too, a prickle in the back of his mind, a sensation he knows he should recognise, that should mean something to him. But he has no strength and he cannot even properly feel frustrated at just lying there.

“There’s something I don’t get, though. I didn’t think you were a hunter. Yes, the first second I saw you, but then, what would a hunter be doing with... Unless you don’t know, of course. Oh, you’re a _bad_ hunter, aren’t you?”

Even through the fog, Sam can follow that argument. A hunter who cannot recognise a demon? That definitely is bad (and Sam refuses to think about years of being monitored oh so closely, much too closely). But this time Sam does know. He knows that his friend, his hunting partner, and his brother is a demon. He also finally recognises the sensation in the back of his mind.

The door is burst open with such great force that it tears out of it’s top hinges and ends up hanging awkwardly awry. Ashley screams and ducks for cover behind the far couch. Sam cannot even blame her. Through the haze he can still clearly feel Dean’s presence and the pure, dark power rolling off of him. This is no common demon facing down the minor goddess from the doorway, and Sam is distantly aware that he is caught in the middle.

Dean seems to have noticed as well, and he prowls closer, snarling in a way that is too far from human for comfort. This is the second time Sam is faced with his brother while Dean’s mostly in demon mode, and it is the second time Sam would be unable to protect himself, should the demon decide to turn on him. However, Dean is preoccupied.

“Cam. Who’d have thought.” His voice is soft and dangerous, and Sam catches a look of eyes the colour of bottomless pits.

(Sam, sadly, knows exactly what that kind of black looks like. He has the Devil to thank for that.)

“Hello little demon. Are you really sure you want to be here?”

She’s moving before she is done talking, and Sam manages to call out, “Dean!” before the goddess collides with his brother. The next instant he almost feels silly. Instead of attacking Dean, Cam is kissing him, shoving her tongue down his throat with so much force that she might as well have taken a swing. Sam would really rather not watch.

It is only as Cam pushes Dean away, towards the couch Sam’s on, that he realises what really happened. The next instant his brother collapses across his chest, eyes green and apologetic. Dean is still mostly upright though, his feet on the floor and his left arm over the back of the couch. The other is braced against Sam’s side, and Sam can feel him struggling against the goddess’ compulsion.

“You’re no good to me, demon, and though I would love to see you cleanly cease to exist once my ritual is over, I think I might make an exception for you, and just slay you today,” she is walking closer, “not immediately, though.”

Sam can see the goddess standing just a few feet away behind Dean. Dean has mostly stopped struggling, succumbing to the power of the goddess’ kiss. It upsets and scares Sam, and for the shortest moment he thinks he might be able to reach for the stake anyway. But the threat to his brother also angers him, and as soon as that feeling flares, it is dragged from him with the short bust of will power. Sam wants to curse (and then he doesn’t, because he cannot even maintain that low level of annoyance). They are well and truly screwed.

“I don’t know what the deal is with the two of you. I haven’t seen a human hunt with a demon for... half a millennium or so? But that’s not what you’re doing anyway,” she’s addressing Sam now, “‘cause you haven’t bound him. Of course that’s a witches’ spell and it turned more than a few hunters around, so I guess that’s why it went out of fashion, but... No, I don’t get it,” She shakes her head and shifts her weight. Sam is still immobile. “And yet there is some of that convoluted demon loyalty at play here, clear as day. Which means I get to make him even angrier, furious and full of rage, and then I can kill him and it will feel so good to destroy that kind of anger.”

Sam actually manages to move. It’s not much, his fingers only just manages to brush his jacket aside and push slightly at the stake, but it is more than he has managed so far. Then the anger catches up with him, drains, and leaves him helpless again. But he is just clear-headed enough to understand the difference. His move hadn’t been fuelled by anger as much as necessity. Kamrusepa wants to hurt his brother. Sam’s stopped the Devil himself from doing that.

If she threatens Dean again, Sam figures he might be able to get a hold of the stake. (Even if the threats bring anger, too. He’ll just have to work in increments. Luckily, Cam seems like the talkative kind of monster.)

“Are you listening, little demon? Can you guess what I’m going to do?” Dean’s completely still by now, “You’re useless to me, but the hunter ain’t. So I will bleed him, kill him and use him for a sacrifice.”

The goddess’ voice is gleeful, but Sam is distracted. He could swear Dean had just gone from cursed immobility to rage-filled immobility. Which makes no sense, since the main problem right now seems to be their shared inability to grow angry at all. Besides, Sam can still see his eyes, and they are green – not the black he would expect from the kind of fury it would take to make Dean tense like that. It seems that he is still as incapable of anger (and consequently empty of sufficient willpower to move) as Sam.

“You need to move,” Kamrusepa finally takes the last step towards them, and her fingers make contact with Dean’s collar.

Next thing Sam knows, the goddess is standing several paces away, eyes wide with shock and a thin, green liquid that must be blood running from a gash over her collarbone and chest. Between them Dean is standing, stake clutched in his hand, as though it was a blade. Even from this angle, Sam can still make out his eyes. The look in them is livid and fierce, but not necessarily angry.

They are also still green.

Dean goes for the goddess, and she tries to dodge him. Sam thinks the only reason she even makes it through the first few seconds is that Dean keeps swinging and slicing with the stake, rather than stabbing.

Kamrusepa gets her hand on his wrist. Dean keeps going. She places a palm on his face. He doesn’t falter. Her fingers trail across his neck. His next swipe cuts her again.

Finally, the goddess’ hand land full on his upper arm, and for a second Sam would swear that Dean falters. Then he drives the stake clean trough her heart and twist.

The goddess crumbles to her knees, then fall fully to the floor. The green sap oozes from the wound in her chest and the smell of cedar is overpowering and nauseating. Sam feels the mobility flow back into his limbs slowly, and he starts fighting to sit up.

He has only just gotten his elbows under him, when there is a whimper from the other side of the room, and Ashley looks up from behind the couch.

Sam doesn’t even have the time to speak. Dean is across the room in two steps, and Sam will never forget the sound.

Sam once took off a vampire’s head with a piece of wire.

The sound of a demon tearing off a girl’s head with its bare hands is so much worse. 

 


	6. Bleeding Love

 

The silence in the car is oppressive. Sam has drawn a demon trap around the passenger seat, and if Dean was saying anything at all, Sam supposes he would be complaining about the lack of leg space the border of the trap causes. It also keeps his brother’s hands of off the radio, and Sam is not in the mood to turn on the music as it is.

In fact, Sam’s not in the mood for anything ‘as it is’. He hasn’t said a word to Dean since he took down the goddess and... and her human priestess. The goddess and the girl that Dean had teasingly been calling Sam's girlfriend only hours before.

Dean isn’t speaking either. To begin with, Sam thought the demon was simply waiting for him to break the silence. But even now that it’s clear he isn’t going to speak, Dean’s still silent.

Sam doesn’t know what to do with his feelings. Ashley set him up as a sacrifice; Dean saved his life. He didn’t even know the girl for a full 48 hours and Dean... Hell, he has even known the demon version of Dean for longer than that. The little sense Sam has managed to wring from his confused feelings says that he is mostly upset by having been unable to stop Dean from taking an innocent (only not really) life. From being unable to control the demon _he_ allowed to run free.

And that’s another thing which upsets and confuses the hell out of Sam. Dean _being_ a demon. Sam _knows_ what Kamrusepa’s influence does to somebody, he was right there, and Dean couldn’t have fought it. He worked around it. But that defeats everything Sam is supposed to know about demons. The goddess said it herself: demons are creatures of hatred and anger. Nothing more, nothing less. (And if that’s the exact same thing she said about hunters, well, there’s something to think about on long sleepless nights.)

Of course Sam already knows that that is not true. There’s greed there, too, which does not really fit in under either heading, as well as self-interest, at least with a good deal of them. And there is the case of Meg, which he has pondered (and tried not to ponder) before, which has always left him empty-handed, because the alternative was ludicrous. But he goes there again, now.

With Meg as an example, and Dean as possible confirmation, he has to conclude that demons _are_ able to care. To love.

That conclusion doesn’t help his mood in the least.

It is getting to him in so many ways, what with how it pretty much messes with his world view and overturns all his beliefs (not that those haven’t been turned around so many times that they’re practically worn thin). On top of that there’s a tiny (but definitely present) voice in the back of his mind, even now, pointing out that if demons can love, then Ruby specifically didn’t love him.

And he hates himself for feeling anything at all about that particular fact.

Yet, as the miles fade behind them and the sun slowly begins to rise, Sam decides it doesn’t matter.

They are going back to the bunker, and he is going to cure Dean. Then he is going to make that hopelessly overdue phone call. (But not before Dean is cured. Because if the call is really _over_ due, well, he does _not_ need Dean to be a demon when he finds out.)

(Which brings Sam back to his earlier contemplations, as he realises that he isn’t operating with even an ounce of doubt that Dean – even as a demon – will care about this.)

Dean wants to be cured, anyway. It is the only explanation Sam can come up with. Why else would he have stood there waiting, unmoving though Sam was finally prepared to use force to keep him in place, while Sam drew the trap around his seat? Why else would he have climbed into the clearly visible pentagram himself? Why else would he have been so complacent all this time? Continue to be even after the goddess had been defeated?

Sam drives for another hour before he realises he is not even thinking of Ashley any more. He tries to remember the colour of her eyes, comes up empty, and decides to leave well enough alone.

“What happened?” His throat is dry and his voice is hoarse.

Dean’s head whip towards him so fast that Sam’ll almost qualify the movement as inhuman. “Oh, you’re talking to me now?” Dean’s voice sound perfectly fine.

Sam sighs. “What happened?” At least his voice sounds a little less rough now that it’s getting warmed up.

Dean turns his head back to watch the road, slower this time. Then, he shrugs.

Sam makes a sound of frustration. “Dean...”

“What do you think happened, Sammy?” Dean is not looking at him, but he sounds surprisingly non-confrontational. Also, Sam thinks the question is rhetorical.

“Please, Dean, just—”

“Stop. Please.” Sam opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off, voice a little harsher now, “No, seriously. I’m stuck here, I _let_ myself be trapped, and I am not putting up with this conversation,” and, which confirms Sam’s suspicions of what happened in that room, “No chick flick moments.”

So, Sam muses to himself, staring very intently on the empty pre-dawn road in front of him, no less confused by his own feelings; Dean cares. More precisely, he cares in the I’m not even angry or upset, I just take care of you ‘cause you’re my brother and that’s what I do-way. Which has just saved him from being sacrificed by a minor goddess.

Oh, did he mention the part where his brother is a demon and really shouldn’t be able to care?!

Sam’s thoughts are going in circles and he is getting frustrated. At himself, at the situation, at the world at large.

“Sammy, pull over.”

Sam glances at Dean, but doesn’t slow.

“Sam.”

“What?” he bites back.

“You’re pretty much dead in your seat. Actually, you’ll be literally dead in your seat if you keep going like this. And I’ll be sitting right here next to you as you crash, and I won’t lift a finger for you. So pull. Over.”

Sam pulls in to the next rest stop. It’s not that Dean wouldn’t try to help, it’s that he couldn’t. He is trapped in his seat, and that in return means that Sam can afford to get some rest, even with a demon right next to him.

A small part of him knows that this is bad reasoning, that any number of things could happen, but now that they are not moving any more, he can feel exactly how tired he is. Dean is watching him intently.

“Idiot,” he mutters, then turns to look out the side window. “Just get some rest.”

 

* * *

 

How he sleeps sitting next to the demon that he has witnessed killing a girl he might or might not have liked less than 12 hours earlier, Sam will never know, but he does. When he wakes up it’s noon, and Dean is fidgeting as much as he can with his limited space.

“God, finally!” he practically whines, when he notices Sam is awake. “Can you please get me out of here?”

Sam turns the key in the engine, and Dean huffs.

“Not what I meant.”

“I know. We’ll be in Lebanon in a couple of hours.”

Dean just grumbles.

It’s a little past three when Sam finally pulls in to the bunker's garage. He grabs the take out he bought on the way from Dean and heads to the kitchen with it, leaving his extremely frustrated brother sitting in the trap.

Sam drops the food unceremoniously in the kitchen, before heading down to prepare the dungeon. Most of what he needs is already in place, still set up from when they held Crowley there. Once he has checked the chains and found a couple of syringes, he steps back to take a look at the setup.

It looks like something out of a horror film, a home made torture chamber. And in a way it will be. He knows what he is going to do will hurt Dean, will mess him up. But it is what they both want, and they are going to get through it. Satisfied, Sam heads back to the garage.

 

* * *

 

Everything goes to hell in a hand basket when they walk past the kitchen.

“Uh, Sammy? I can actually smell the food from here. Where’re you going?”

“To the dungeon. We might as well start.” Besides, Dean will better be able to enjoy the food once he is human again, and Sam only got enough for one for that very reason.

“What?” It’s faint, but there is a dangerous edge to that voice, and Sam is immediately alert.

“I’m going to cure you, Dean.”

“No.”

Sam blinks at him. Dean has been tagging along placidly until now, through the hunt, through the drive back here, through the first part of the bunker, and now... “What?”

“No,” this time it is more growl than human voice, and Sam can see his brother tensing for a fight.

He has no idea what went wrong where, “But this is what you want.”

The comment earns Sam a rough shove into a wall. It takes him a second to realise exactly what is wrong with that. Dean is standing, still glaring a couple of paces away. Look, no hands.

Two can play that game.

Sam doesn’t get a chance to think any further or react in any way before the pressure is gone, though, “Why the hell would you think that?”

Back to talking, okay, “You’ve been cooperating up till now, acting like you. You came back here. Why else would you be so... so docile?!”

“I was being calm, ‘cause you _weren’t_ trying to pull this shit!” In Dean’s defence he doesn’t attack again, though he is obviously angry. Instead, he turns to stalk away.

“Dean!” Sam slams into him, eager to get to him before he simply teleports out of there. They roll around on the floor and Sam realises how much stronger Dean is as a demon. Somehow they roll into the kitchen and collide with a cupboard. Sam pushes back with everything he has, and suddenly he is on top of Dean. He reaches into the cupboard conveniently next to him, to pull out a half full bag of salt (not a convenient chance – he’d probably be harder pressed to find a cupboard without salt by now) and proceeds to dump its contents on Deans head.

Sam honestly didn’t know what it would do, but some stupid little part of him had wanted to keep his secret just a little longer (and preferably forever). Dean passes out.

 

* * *

 

By the time Dean comes to, Sam has him tightly secured in the chair surrounded by a trap in the dungeon. The chains are in place, but Sam has carefully cleaned any and all of the salt from Dean’s hair and clothes.

Dean moans, “Bitch.”

Sam fills a syringe with his own blood in silence. Dean tugs slightly at his bonds, then seems to give it up as pointless.

“This is for the best, Dean,” Sam steps closer, readying the needle.

“You and I both know that’s a lie,” Dean’s words are hard, but not angry. It is the seriousness of them that gives Sam pause.

“What?” He fully expects to get an answer from the demon.

“Because I’m calmer like this, fucked up as it. And I’m still me. You know; you’ve _seen_ ,” his brother hisses.

“You _tore_ the _head_ of a woman _off_.”

“I took out a woman who had helped sacrificing almost ten people. Who were happily trying to make _you_ the next.”

“We don’t kill humans!”

“We kill witches! Tell me how this is different?!”

Sam doesn’t actually have an answer.

“Think with your upstairs brain, little bro.”

“I’m not actually upset about Ashley. Well, I am, but these are our lives. But in the beginning you were prepared to let a dozen people be sacrificed in order to complete the spell, on the off chance that it could work!”

This time it is Dean who seems to have trouble coming up with an answer.

“Dean—”

“Okay, Sammy, I’ll be honest with you. There are things that’re different. I used to feel like it was my job, no, my _responsibility_ to save all of the goddamned world. That’s gone now. I don’t look at random people and know that I would lay down my life to protect them – not, mind you, because I wanted to, but because I was _supposed_ to. But honestly, that’s a relief like you wouldn’t believe. But the other parts... They’re the _same,_ Sammy. You’re still my brother. I still want to protect you. I might even stand a better chance at that now, than ever before. And... My friends, they still mean something to me. I’d still happily die to protect those I...” there’s a grimace that is as clear as the word to Sam, “those I care for. That hasn’t changed. It’s just easier to focus on that, now.”

Sam is still standing frozen in front of his brother. The problem is, he believes Dean. And he knows that that is bad.

“It’s not even that I won’t protect strangers. I still want to hunt. There’s a part of me that wants to kill, sure, but I can kill monsters and be happy with that. It’s not like it’s a new thing anyway – I’ve had this desire for so fucking long Sam, and not just since I got the Mark. Since I came back, more like, and I’m not talking about Purgatory. And that’s another thing, Sam. Now? I don’t have to sleep, but I _can_. And the nightmares are _gone_.”

It might seem like a selfish point, but Sam has had enough nightmares of Hell of his own, to know that it is a selling point. He has his own way of dealing with them now, and he is a big enough man to admit that it is hardly more healthy than Dean’s.

They really have a drinking problem in this family, Sam muses morbidly.

“If we have to save the world again, Sam,” Dean is leaning back now, looking at the ceiling, “I’m game. But I want to do it like this. What I was before, the _way_ I was before... I think I just about reached the point where the world could have burned for all I cared.”

Sam is biting his lip. He doesn’t know what to say. But Dean isn’t done anyway.

“ _That’s_ the difference you’re looking at. Me like this, and I find it difficult to care about the world at large. Not because I don’t want to, but because it’s a strange concept. Me before, and I didn’t care simply because I was so goddamn tired all the time. Of all of it. At least like this I have the strength to fight for those I do care about.”

Sam is sure he is referring to what happened with Kamrusepa, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that. Is Dean saying that they would have been dead if they had both been human? Human, and angry, and damn exhausted?

Sam doesn’t want to deal with this, can’t deal with it.

“Sam, will you do something for me?” Dean is looking at him again, earnest and serious, “Take a couple of hours to think about what I’ve said,” Dean continues before Sam can protest, “Use them, get some more blood ready – you can’t draw it all at once anyway – or whatever. Just, a couple of hours?”

“Will you think of why it would be good for you to go back to being human, then?”

“You’ll have to tell me,” Sam makes an offended sound, and only the chains binding him holds Dean back from lifting his hands placatingly, “No, seriously, I’m not sure I’m able to come up with the reasons on my own. Hell, I’m sure I’m not. My brain doesn’t work that way right now.”

Sam just looks at him. The problem is, with all Dean’s just said, he’s not sure _he_ can come up with a single thing, either.

But that is a lie. There is one thing. A word, a name. _Castiel_. It is the only reason Sam can think of, but it is also the one reason he thinks might sway Dean. Yet he holds his tongue. How long has it been since he spoke to the angel? Cas is sick, he knows this, and he is fading faster and faster. Sam doesn’t know how he is, but he was bad off when they last spoke and it must have been almost three weeks ago.

There’s a risk, and it makes Sam’s stomach curl and roil in protest to even think it, but there is a risk that the angel is dead.

He cannot invoke the angel’s name not knowing. If Dean comes back for his sake, only to find that Castiel is gone, Sam doesn’t believe his brother will be able to bear it. (He still remembers a crumbled trench coat moved from trunk to trunk for so long.)

“Way your brain works, you probably wouldn’t be able to consider the reasons anyway,” Sam says, mostly to keep from saying anything else. He turns away from his brother, hesitating where he stands. “Dammit,” he hisses harshly at himself, before making his way over to the table and putting the syringe down. Looking over his shoulder, he meets Dean’s green eyes again, “I will see you in a couple of hours.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter to go! (Expect it Friday)


	7. Demon Hunters

 

Dean is quiet as Sam injects the third round of blood into his arm. It is 11 am and Sam has spent all night thinking about whether or not he should go through with it. He had handed Dean his iPod the night before, to at least allow him something to listen to while tied up, and Dean had seemed happy to oblige.

Sam thinks Dean had been convinced that he would give.

But anything and everything the demon said had to have been a lie. That’s what demons do, after all. They lie. Sam had repeated this to himself over and over again. He had repeated it as he drew his blood, he had repeated it in between blessing every single vial (should be as good as confessing his sins before, apparently, and lucky for that, for confessing now – at least to a human priest – no longer seems an option), and he had repeated it on the way down, to give Dean his first shot at 9 am.

Dean is silent; he doesn’t speak, doesn’t fight, doesn’t react at all yet, as the needle bites into his arm. But Sam catches the look in his eyes in a moment’s carelessness, and there is something haunted there, which gives Sam the shivers.

But Sam presses on. He leaves the room calmly. In a few hours, half a day’s time, it will all be over. By late afternoon, Dean will be back and he will be thankful.

 

* * *

 

The distress call comes a quarter to one. The last injection visibly (albeit shortly) affected Dean, and Sam doesn’t think the universe has ever managed to have worse timing.

That is saying a lot, considering how his life has been.

The pick-up is loaded and the trap around the passenger seat reinforced by 1 pm.

Sam administers the shot, then hesitates by the table. He packs the remaining the syringes while Dean trembles slightly behind him. It passes quickly.

“So, we have a problem,” Sam bites his lip, then resolutely turns to face Dean.

Dean looks back at him silently.

“I just got a call from Omar. Remember him?”

“Poltergeist, couple of years back, yeah. He helped out good. Was happy to get in touch with Bobby, too, said it made his hunting life easier.”

“After Bobby... After, we got back in touch. Especially lately, I’ve been fielding some calls. Anyway, he’s a couple of states over. Buddy of his, Carmen, left a message asking for backup yesterday, but he wasn’t able to make it. She was already headed out when she called, and now he can’t get in touch with her. That’s not unlike her, and he figures that she realised he wasn’t coming, when he didn’t make their rendezvous. So he wasn’t really nervous,” Sam pauses. Dean is clearly paying attention, sharp and focused. If he is beginning to feel the effects of the cure, he isn’t showing it. “Twenty minutes ago, he got a call from her. First thing her hears as he picks up is a thud, he guesses from her dropping the phone. Then moans, begging, a scream and more moaning. Then the call disconnected.”

“Sam, what are you getting at?”

“He’s _states_ away. It’s an hour, an hour and a half from here. She was hunting a wendigo.”

Dean shakes his head slowly, “The chances of her still being alive—”

“Are slim to nothing, I know. But we have to try. And even if she’s dead, we can’t leave a wendigo on the loose in our backyard.”

“ _We?”_

Sam exhales harshly.

“Hunting a wendigo isn’t a one man job. Besides, there’s the cure...”

“You want to take me with you,” Dean seems to bite back a harsh comment or two. When he opens his mouth again, Sam expects to be hit by the third. “Okay.”

“...Okay?”

“Hunting wendigos isn’t a one man job. This Carmen chick should have known better.”

Sam scratches the edge of the trap, then leads Dean upstairs still in chains. In the car he helps him settle with his jacket in his lap. Even if they’re pulled over, nobody will see the cuffs on his wrists.

Through it all, Dean complies readily and easily. It puts Sam on edge for more than one reason.

“Are you feeling it at all?”

Dean looks at him for a long while, as if to say ‘what do you think?’. That’s the problem. Sam doesn’t know what he thinks. It is perfectly possible that Dean is able to hide his reactions to the cure, but... Sam sighs, and makes his way to the driver’s seat.

They don’t speak again until their first stop. Sam pulls over an hour in to the drive. There’s still quite some way to their destination, but Sam is giving Dean his sixth shot. Dean jerks slightly as he pushes the plunger, but otherwise doesn’t react. Sam takes a deep breath as he pulls the needle out. Just two more to go.

As Sam is putting the syringe away to dispose of later, Dean finally breaks the silence, “Not for nothing, but I seem to recall that Crowley was a blabbering mess by his sixth injection.”

Sam looks up and meets his brothers eyes, “If I were to repeat my question about whether you feel anything...?”

“The answer would still be no. I _do_ think we’re wasting our time, sitting around here, when we should be looking for this Carmen, but I don’t know that that worry is different from before.”

“You said you didn’t feel anything for strangers.”

“Hunters aren’t strangers, not really. You know that as well as me. There’s a kinship we can’t deny, even with the most fucked up SOB’s out there.”

Sam puts the car back in gear and pulls out. It is a moment before he replies, “You still identify yourself as a hunter, don’t you?”

“As opposed to what?” Sam looks over at him, but Dean shakes his head, “No, Sam, It’s all I’ve ever been. What am I, if not a hunter?”

Sam draws in a breath, and it sounds loud in the sudden silence. He refuses to say it.

“A demon, eh?” Dean is quiet, looking out the window. “I’m a demon hunter. Stress at will.”

Sam cannot help but snort at the sudden joke, “We’ll get you back, Dean.”

Sam means to be reassuring, but that is the wrong thing to say. He can feel the anger rolling of off the demon sitting next to him. His eyes haven’t flashed back, but Sam suspects that that is a conscious choice on Dean’s part. He wonders if Dean knows how clearly his emotions, at least the violent ones, comes across. He guesses not, or there would be no point to the demon’s trying to hide them.

“No getting me back, if I’m not gone, Sammy,” there’s both anger and a slight hint of trepidation there.

The rest of the car ride is tense. They park some way into the forest, when the dirt road turns into a single track. Sam gets out his gear, gps and improvised flamethrower at the ready. Then he breaks the trap keeping Dean in the car.

“You gonna take these off me?” Dean asks after a while, when Sam makes no move to get the chains.

“No.”

Dean growls, “And do you expect the to walk in there unarmed, as well? Gonna be a bit hard to play backup like that, Sammy. Unless you’re planning to use me as bait,” Dean narrows his eyes at him. Sam startles slightly.

“I wasn’t... I didn’t. Fuck. Here,” he hands Dean the flamethrower, full well knowing it might be a very bad idea. He has matches, two lighters and extra lighter fluid himself, so it isn’t the loss of the weapon that bothers him. He just hopes his brother doesn’t hate his hair enough to resort to drastic measures.

Dean is shaking his head, though at what Sam is not sure. “So, how are we going to find her?”

“Omar got a lock on her cell when she called him. He’s good at that kind of thing,” Sam’s started walking. Dean follows, and Sam thinks what it says about him that he is willing to turn his back on a demon. Not that Dean would stand a chance, chained and restrained that he is. Sam’s biggest worry is still the flamethrower. It’s a ranged weapon, after all. “We should introduce him to Charlie. Think he might like her.”

“Charlie’s gay, Sammy.”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t have boy friends.”

Dean rolls his eyes at the word play, “Yeah, but perhaps we shouldn’t encourage her. She didn’t do so well with us, after all, did she?” It’s a joke, but it is forced and falls short.

“No, she didn’t,” Sam agrees, a little to serious.

They keep walking in silence.

 

* * *

 

It’s Dean himself who points it out. “Did you bring the blood, Sammy?”

Sam stops in his tracks and turns to look at his brother. The cuffs around his wrists makes Sam a bit nauseous. They’re hunting a wendigo. His brother needs his mobility, dammit. It doesn’t change anything though.

“Do you want the shot?” Sam left the syringes in the car, but he isn’t going to say. He has years and years worth of practice in cursing and/or panicking quietly.

“Nah, it’s not time yet, anyway. Still have... 12 minutes to go, if I’m right.”

Dean is not wearing a watch, and Sam has no idea of how he is able to tell time that precisely. It puts him on edge, though. Dean will know immediately, when they miss the next shot. Sam has no idea what will happen then. He turns back around and starts walking. Maybe he won’t notice if they’re distracted by a wendigo by then. Or maybe Sam at least won’t care. They’re getting close.

A couple of hundred meters further ahead, they step into a clearing. And the wendigo they are hunting suddenly seems rather advanced.

“Since when the fuck does wendigos live in houses?” Dean stares at the, admittedly ramshackle, wooden house in front of them.

“This is the place,” Sam waves the gps disbelievingly.

“Well, no time like the present.”

Together they make their way to the house, communicating silently as years of working together has taught them. Sam spares a moment to be impressed. He is stealthy himself, it comes with years of hunting, but Dean is literally soundless. The leaves under his feet doesn’t stir as he moves. Sam doesn’t think he is even breathing.

They go through the house carefully but efficiently, clearing the ground floor, before making their way into the basement. Wendigos like tunnels and caves: if it is using the house as a hideout, it makes sense that it would be underground. But the basement is as empty as the ground floor. What is more, they don’t find Carmen’s phone, nor any blood.

“Could be outside, somewhere close?” The low whisper still sounds too loud.

“There was another set of stairs, back the way we came.”

“Check upstairs, then outside?”

With a nod they’re back to their silent communication as they make their way to the first floor. There are three doors. Sam opens the first, revealing a closet. They split the two remaining between them. Both lead to L-shaped rooms, and they step inside.

Sam doesn’t know if Dean finds anything in his room, but on an old half-collapsed bed in the corner of this, a woman is lying. She seems unharmed, and she is breathing. Sam is across the floor before he even fully registers this.

He realises his mistake the instant before his fingers touch her skin. He is flung across the room, hitting the window, and then he is falling. The half rook over the porch slows his fall, and the piled up leaves in the garden cushions it some, but he is still winded and unable to move. Then the woman appears behind him. And he is thrown up against the outer wall of the house and held there, feet dangling a couple of feet over the ground.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” The woman, who Sam assumes used to be Carmen, looks at him with pitch black eyes. She opens her mouth, but she doesn’t get another word out.

Dean bowls into her from the side, tackling her with his shoulder, sending them both to the ground sprawling. Still bound by the demon cuffs, he is little better off than a restrained human trying the same stunt, and even as Sam’s feet reconnect with the ground, he can smell the sharp tang of Dean’s blood fill the air.

Again, the desire to protect comes with anger. But it is okay; he has learned to channel his anger and use it.

Sam reaches out with that part of him that might be his mind or might be pure darkness (most of the time he doesn’t think those are mutually exclusive). He grabs onto the demon that was dumb enough to attack him and his brother and mentally throws her across the yard to connect with a thick tree. He holds her there.

Dean is on the ground, bleeding badly – the bitch went straight for his throat – but he doesn’t even seem to notice. Instead he is staring at Sam, and Sam cannot help but stare back. His secret is out. (A disconnected part of his brain notices that there’s still something repelling about Dean’s blood, though.)

The demon squirms in his psychic hold, and he returns his focus to the woman. Bracing, he tries to concentrate on dragging the demon from its vessel.

“You, you! No, you can’t do this to me! You can’t do this!” And then, as though her words make her realise something, she repeats, “You _can’t_ do this!”

Sam knows the supernatural world at large knew about his demon blood addiction, and the abilities it gave him. He also knows that everybody knew that he gave it up. He is happy to learn that the word has not spread that he has taken this habit back up.

The demon is stronger than he was prepared for though, and dragging it out without hurting the vessel is a challenge. To free up a little of his strength, he puts her back on the ground and opts to hold her in place rather than entirely motionless. That is a mistake. Several things happen at once.

A shadow comes flying at him from the edge of the trees, moving too fast for his eyes to track. At the same time the demon tosses violently and there is a sick crack as the vessel’s neck snap. The demon keeps thrashing, unaffected, and a solid weight connects with Sam’s side.

The next thing he knows, there are once-human fingers, claws really, scrabbling at his chest, ripping his shirt and tearing at his flesh. Teeth snap at his face, and he really needs his focus to keep the wendigo away from his throat.

It’s too late for Carmen anyway, and Sam burns the demon in her body with a thought. But he is stilled pinned under a feral wendigo, and he is running out of strength fast.

Dean tries to tackle his second monster in as many minutes. This time it barely allows Sam to breathe and get his hand to the cord around his neck. Dean is thrown to the side and the wendigo returns it attention to its already downed prey, as Sam throws his now freed necklace to Dean. He hopes his brother sees it, because an instant later he has to focus on holding the wendigo back again .

When Dean’s body connects with the wendigo this time, they both go flying. The monster is back up in a blink though, and it goes for Sam again. Sam barely has the time to raise his arms, but it doesn’t matter. Dean had seen him throw the key to the cuffs, and without the restraints, the demon is perfectly capable of keeping up with the wendigo. It helps that nothing the wendigo does seems to affect Dean.

The wendigo tears at Dean and Dean tears at the wendigo. Though the monster seems more affected by the wounds inflicted than the demon, Sam finally gets his mind about him enough to realise, oh yeah, fire.

The flamethrower is lying among the leaves in the spot where Dean fell after tackling the demon. Sam picks it up and gets the fire going.

“Dean!” he calls and suddenly the wendigo is bodily flung towards him. Sam hits the button, and the monster goes up in flames.

The Winchesters’ shared panting is loud in the following silence. They are facing each other from opposite sides of the garden, one crisp wendigo between them, one dead demon (and a former hunter) off to the side. Sam’s chest is torn and bleeding, but it’s nothing compared to Dean’s chest, to his arms, his face and, oh God, his throat.

“You’re bleeding,” Sam can barely recognize his own voice.

“I noticed. Should I be worried?” Dean sounds less winded than Sam feels, and that is fucked up, but reassuring all the same.

“I’m not a fucking vampire, Dean.”

Something flashes in Dean’s eyes. Not black, just apprehension. Maybe even defeat. “You’re drinking demon blood.” Now Dean’s voice is flat, completely devoid of emotion. If Sam didn’t know for a fact that his brother perfected that voice years and years ago, he would have thought it was the demon in him speaking.

“Yeah.” What else can he say?

“Dammit, Sammy!” Dean explodes, “I thought you were over it!”

“I was!” Sam can feel blood running sluggishly down his chest, and he doesn’t want to have a shouting match here and now. But it makes him notice something else, too, “I take that back. You’re _not_ bleeding. Not any more.”

Dean’s wounds are healing up neatly. He is still covered in blood, but given a couple of more minutes, there will be no trace left of the origins of the crimson mess. Sam has the fleeting thought of how big an advantage that would be for a hunter.

“Yeah, sorry princess, missed your meal.”

Sam makes a face, “Ew, Dean, just ew!”

As serious as the situation is (as seriously pissed off as Dean seems to be) that comment seems to amuse him. He chuckles darkly, “You’re the one drinking demon blood, Sammy. I wouldn’t have thought you were squeamish.”

“I’m not... It’s not... Whatever else, I’m never going to drink blood from you, Dean. The smell’s off, and the thought is making me nauseous. It’s as though... I suppose I know instinctively, even in this respect, that you’re my brother, and that just doesn’t roll.”

“Uh, wow,” Dean is impressed for all of two seconds, “What the hell, Sammy? What the _hell_!”

“Dean, I can explain.”

“Explain? Explain! Sammy, you’ve gone dark side again. You’re drinking _demon blood_!”

“Dean—”

“No, Sammy. Seriously, what? When did this start? Were you just waiting for me to be gone to do this? All these years, you’ve been wanting it, and the second I was out of your way—”

“Dammit, Dean, will you listen to yourself?” Sam’s angry too, now, “You’re talking like I _wanted_ you gone. Newsflash, I didn’t! Not gone. Not dead. Not a demon. I just want my fucking brother, but apparently that’s too much to ask for in our fucking lives! I couldn’t do it, Dean, I couldn’t do it alone. I wasn’t strong enough. And then there was this.” Through his anger, Sam actually has the presence of mind to hope that Dean doesn’t read too much into the alone-comment.

“But seriously, Sammy,” Dean has calmed down, if only a little, “all these years...”

“And you’re still not listening!” Sam’s the opposite of calm, “There’s no ‘all these years’; I _haven’t_ been pining for demon blood all this time! Does it even _matter?!”_

“I don’t know, okay, Sammy,” Sam growls at him, “Yes, okay, yes, it _does_! _”_

“Fine! Good! I haven’t!”

“How do I know?!”

They both pause. This is another go at the oldest issue in their relationship, the one which really took life the first time Sam was drinking demon blood, he realises. It’s an issue of trust. But this, at least, Sam can answer. Because it is something he has considered himself. _At length_.

“Because I didn’t when I ran around soulless.”

This seems to stump Dean.

“Sammy...”

“No Dean, I’m serious. I might not remember all of what I did then, but I remember some. I remember enough. I was doing all of the things I would never do normally, just to feel good, to feel satisfied. And power, yeah, that’s a trip for me. If there had been any desire, hell even the inkling of the _idea_ then, I would have been gorging demon blood like the world was ending,” Sam can’t keep the bitter smile of his face, “Again.”

Dean doesn’t reply.

“Even with what I did just before jumping into the cage, all the blood I drank then... It was a means to an end. After the first detox, I really was clean. I wasn’t going to go near demon blood ever again. And I was okay with that. And yeah, we had that run-in with Famine,” understatement of the year, “but that didn’t change anything.” Sam takes a deep breath, “I know I’ve lied to you over the years, but I haven’t been constantly lying the way you’re accusing me off. I wouldn’t.”

“But you didn’t tell me about this, now.”

It’s petulant and Sam wants to reply in kind, “Not the first time you’ve been gone, either, Dean. Took an extended leave of absence to explore Purgatory, remember?” The instant the words leaves his mouth, Sam knows he shouldn’t have gone there. There is the mess of how Sam didn’t try to find a way in (or out) of Purgatory, and there’s the whole thing about the angel on top of that.

Sam shifts, and hisses as the cold air makes his torn chest throb.

“We should burn her, then get back to the car. I’ll patch you up.”

Sam looks disoriented at Dean for a moment. He doesn’t know if the argument is over, or if it’s just momentarily on pause.

In the end, Dean does most of the digging. He doesn’t complain, and it doesn’t seem like his demonic strength vanes or that his muscles tire. They salt and burn Carmen; she deserves a hunter’s funeral, having fallen in the line of duty as so many before her.

 

* * *

 

It is dark by the time they get back to the car. Sam sits in the passenger seat as Dean leans over him and tapes his chest back together, before covering him in bandages. They both change into some of Sam’s spare clothes. Then they begin the drive back to the bunker.

Dean is driving, and they are halfway when he speaks, “Are you going to quit?”

Sam thinks about it for a couple of miles, “It’s different.”

“Different,” Dean throws him a look, one eyebrow arched perfectly.

“Different from before. I don’t know...” Sam mulls the words over in his head for a while, “I’m going to use a really crappy analogy, okay? Because it’s sort of fitting. Before, it was like being young and being dumb, going out to get absolutely piss-faced on the cheapest shit you could get. The drunker the better, even though everybody knows you’ll feel bad long before the morning after.”

Dean snorts, but he seems unable to completely repress his smile. “And now?”

“Now I’d rather enjoy a good glass of wine or whisky. I enjoy the buzz, but I have absolutely no desire to be drunk out of my mind.”

“Oh god, you’re a connoisseur!” Dean is grinning now. “A connoisseur in demon blood. Have you got any idea how fucked up that is?” Dean looks over at him, and although he is trying to regain some seriousness he doesn’t quite succeed.

“What can I say, welcome to my life. Actually, welcome to _our_ lives.”

Dean snorts again. They ride in silence for a while.

“Just out of curiosity, you were using _your_ blood for the cure, right?” Dean looks over at him as the car idles in front of a stop light. They’re almost back to the bunker.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know if that is presumptuous, or if you just hadn’t thought that through. I seem to recall that the human blood used needed to be _pure_.”

“I purified the blood, thank you very much.”

“Presumptuous, then.”

“Dean!”

“You honestly think your blessing’s going to be enough to purify your blood? I see two problems with that: one, you probably couldn’t bless holy water now – and remind me we have to try, ‘cause I definitely can’t – and two, your blood probably need some hardcore blessing to be purified. Chinese?”

Sam blinks. Looks at Dean. Blinks again. Then spots the sign outside the window. “Sounds good. Take out? I want to get back to the bunker.”

“Coming right up.”

Dean disappears into the small restaurant and returns a good ten minutes later, with way too much food.

“What? I haven’t eaten since, like, the day before yesterday? I’m hungry!”

“You don’t _need_ to eat.”

“How is that relevant?”

Sam just shakes his head.

When Dean parks in the bunker’s garage, he doesn’t immediately get out. “I’ll cut you a deal, Sammy,” they both flinch, “Okay, bad choice of words. Anyway, you don’t have any blood on hand to cure me, and I don’t want to be cured. All my earlier reasons still stand, and add to that that you actually could control me, if I turned, you know, demon-demon.” Dean takes a deep breath and meets Sam’s eyes. “You don’t cure me. I don’t bitch about the blood-drinking. I might even get round to be supportive of it, if you’re actually as in control as you say. We keep hunting together, do what we do best. Could that work?”

Sam guesses he’s known since he didn’t slap the cuffs on Dean’s wrists the second he saw him. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“ _Deal_ ,” Sam smirks.

Dean smirks right back, “Are you sure you want to make a deal with a demon?” he leans over, “You know deals are sealed with a kiss.”

“Gah!” Sam fumbles for the door and half jumps, half falls out the car. Dean’s laughter echoes in the garage and it is joined by Sam’s shortly after.

With their food in hand, they make their way to the door. Sam nods to a tarp not far from the entrance to the main bunker. “I kept her ready, but I haven’t driven her much.”

Dean veers off and goes to run his hands over the cloth-covered hood of a car. Then he grabs the cover and yanks it off with a decisive movement. “Baby, I’m back.”

Sam grins, “Dinner first, then tomorrow we’ll look for a hunt?.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “It’ll be good to get back on the road.”

“It’s like a second home to you, isn’t it?”

“To us. We’re hunters.”

Sam looks up. “Hunters,” he seconds, eyes flashing dangerously.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all Folks! 
> 
> This is the first part of a series, though. The prologue for next part, _Brilliant Light_ , will be posted Sunday the 31st.


End file.
